Make way for royalty.
Damn. Back at South Hills High I would have had to beg, plead, and humiliate myself for some space. No, back at SHH, I would never be late for a class. Especially not because I was in the bathroom talking trash, doing drugs, and taking stolen jewelry.
“I know this is first period,” the teacher continues, his marker still squeaking on the board. “And I know you all need your precious sleep, and I know that most of you stayed up until two on Facebook. However, every one of you knows how I feel about first period tardiness. My class is not an excuse to sleep late.”
I’m almost to the open seat. One more kid, this one wearing some kind of brimmed fedora hat, has to move his chair.
He just stares straight ahead, chin on hand. Jerk.
“So this will be your only warning,” Mr. Brighton says. “Next time—” He snaps the marker top and turns, beady eyes narrowed through John Lennon round-rimmed glasses. Instantly his face softens. “Ayla.” He shakes his head, a genuine smile dawning. “You’ve never been a morning person, have you?”
I go with it. “I rock after lunch, though, Mr. Brighton.”
Everyone laughs like I just said the wittiest thing.
“Mr. Zelinsky, please let her through,” he orders Hat Boy, who gives his desk enough of a pull for me to shimmy between it and the seat in front of him. My backside grazes his desk, and one of the boys in the back mumbles, “Nice view, huh, Charlie?”
I expect color to rise to my cheeks, but my face remains cool as I level the speaker with an icy gaze. How fun is this? I don’t blush in this dream!
The recipient of my dirty look, however, doesn’t have such good luck, as he brightens while the kid next to him—oh, it’s my boyfriend, Ryder—leans over and grabs the heckler’s T-shirt.
“Shut up and move so she can sit back here,” Ryder snarls, then turns and completely annihilates me with a sexy smile.
I glance at the pack of cool kids in the back—you don’t have to know them by name, they’re the same in every school, real or imagined. Two pretty girls are doing some hair twirling and boob adjustments, and there are a couple of jocks, and Ryder. That’s where I belong, I just know it.
“Please, Ayla. Take a seat.” Mr. Brighton might be running out of love for me, so I slide into the closest desk with a quick shrug toward Ryder, who suddenly looks confused. Like he’s not sure if I’m blowing him off or not.
Which is just laughable, considering he is el major hottero, as Lizzie would say. She’d obsess over his every move, cataloging his colors (yellow on Monday, red on Tuesday), analyzing his every syllable on Facebook. And probably never get the time of day from him. And now he’s worried that I’ve dissed him.
Ohmigod, this is so much fun. I can barely keep from laughing out loud, looking around and taking it all in. But instinct tells me I shouldn’t.
Still, after I get situated and the chattering stops, I can’t resist one more silent message to Ryder, a raised brow that just says Maybe you’re not worth fighting for. It has its intended effect—he narrows his steely eyes and gives a stone-cold-sexy look of determination.
I ignore the little shiver that runs through me and turn to face the teacher, who’s straight out of “English teacher” central casting, with a ponytail and a blue denim button-down.
“What are the chances you’ve completed the reading assignment I gave you three weeks ago?”
A collective groan confirms that the chances are zero, making Croppe Academy no different than any other school.
“Look at the person next to you, right now.”
Everyone does, and my gaze lands on the rim of the hat.
“Now take that person’s hand.”
More groaning, and some laughter, a few outcries of “gay” and “retarded.” I reach my hand, but that boy is tucked low into his seat, long legs extended. His face is in shadow, some dark hair curling out around his neck. Guys who wear anything but baseball caps are complete wannabes; that law has to be universal no matter what world I’m inhabiting.
Still he clenches his jaw, refusing to look at me. I try to imagine myself in his shoes, which, sadly, isn’t hard. How would I feel if I had to reach over and hold hands with Courtney Nicholas’s boyfriend du jour? I’d want to crawl into a hole.
I’d be sympathetic to his situation, except he lost me with the hat and attitude.
“Whoever you are holding hands with is your partner.” Mr. Brighton walks down the aisle between the boy and me. “Mr. Zelinsky, do you have a problem?”
The kid just closes his eyes, then reluctantly takes my hand. His palm is warm and surprisingly dry. If the situation were reversed, my sweat glands would be set on Drench.
“I’m working under the assumption that at least fifty percent of you have read the book. So we’re having a pop quiz on it right now, and you get the benefit of a partner’s help.”
The resounding “Get out!” and “No way!” makes everyone drop their partner’s hand, including Zelinsky and me.
“I understand if you have a good reason to be behind on the reading.” Mr. Brighton tilts his head toward me. “Ayla, for example, was busy with her father during the dedication of the new gymnasium and indoor swimming pool he had built.”
He did? Way to go, Dr. J. No wonder the teachers tiptoe around me.
As Mr. Brighton returns to the front of the classroom, I lean a little closer to Zelinsky. “What book?” I ask him.
He slides a look at me, and for the first time I can really see him. Deep, dark eyes, clear skin, a recent first-time shave over a squarish jaw.
“You don’t even know what book he assigned?” he asks in a shocked whisper. “Man, you’re dumber than I thought.”
I give him a hard look, the same one that worked on Bliss.
“Lord of the Flies,” he says.
“Seriously?” I ask. He rolls his eyes, and I resist the urge to grab his shirt in my enthusiasm. “William Golding’s Lord of the Flies?”
“No, Justin Bieber’s version. Did you read that?”
I want to give the bird to Hat Boy, but I’m too happy that my Day of Good Fortune is holding steady.
“I need three symbols in Lord of the Flies,” Mr. Brighton announces. “And their meaning, people. You have fifteen minutes to talk to your partner, craft some answers, and write them out. Scores count as a quiz grade. Fifteen minutes.”
He punctuates that with a dramatic twist of a white kitchen timer.
“Did you read it?” I ask Zelinsky.
“I had something else to do.”
Hat shopping? I’m about to tell him it’s his lucky day, when my Fendi bag vibrates, and I pull out my iPhone.
Ryder: Don’t forget about me.
“Okay, everybody. Push your desks together and work!”
Zelinsky moves his desk with little enthusiasm, then pulls out a piece of paper. “So we’re burned,” he says.
Of course no one would expect Ayla to have read the book. I put my elbow on his desk and sneak a peek under the brim of the hat. “I read it last year,” I tell him.
His eyes widen, well beyond surprise and deep into incredulity. “You read?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Then he shakes his head, wheels visibly turning as his features show doubt. “Why’d you read it last year?”
Because every sophomore in South Hills High AP English had to. “Extra credit.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorts. “The only extra credit you do is with an American Express card.”
I hear my mom’s voice in my head: Extra credit is not optional. I just clear my throat. “Excuse me, have we actually met?” I ask.
“I’m Charlie.”
“Hi. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” He searches my face a little. “You seriously read the book?”
“Yep. And not SparkNotes, either.” Digging for a pen in my bag, I steal another look at Ryder, who is staring at Charlie’s head like it’s target practice. He’s jealou
s?
I give him a three-finger wave and smile, then hand my pen to Charlie, mentally calling up the three essays I wrote on Golding’s symbolism, the lowest grade an A-, thank you very much.
The noise level rises around us, but I whisper to Charlie, “Face paint. The conch. Butterflies. Write those down.”
He leans back, blown away. “Really?”
“Well, you could argue that rituals are symbol—”
“No, I mean, you’re not playing me? Like, you know this stuff?”
“It’s a fluke,” I assure him. “Like everything else today.”
He starts to write, dividing his attention between the paper and me. “I might have pegged you wrong.”
“Thought I was just a dumb, rich, popular girl?”
His color deepens. “You have that reputation.”
I nudge him to write. “C’mon. This is timed. Face paint is a big symbol in the book. They use it for fun at first. Then it becomes camouflage.…”
As Charlie madly writes what I’m saying, I feel some weird pressure on me. Eyes. Attention.
Get used to it, Annie. You are no longer invisible.
Still, I look up from the paper, and the room is somewhat hushed, and all twenty sets of eyes are staring at me, a whole classroom full of disbelief, and displeasure.
Oh, now I get it. I’m upsetting the feng shui of this school or something. This is not how Ayla Monroe is expected to act. This is how Annie Nutter acts. Do I want to blow what’s been a perfectly wonderful dream day by showing off my lit skills?
“Okay. What else besides face paint?” Charlie asks, clueless to the strange dynamics in the room.
I push my hair off my face, warm from the unexpected attention of the class. “Um … whatever. Just write whatever.”
“The conch?” he prods. “Didn’t you say something about the conch? And bumblebees?”
“Butterflies,” I say softly, aware that I’m vibrating again. I touch the phone screen.
Ryder: r u high?
He would think that. Gorgeous, cool girls don’t sidle up to geeks and ace pop quizzes.
Charlie taps the paper. “What about them? The butterflies?”
I hit the screen to compose a note to Ryder. Ha ha, I write. Lame, but I’m in a pinch here.
“Ayla?” Charlie insists. “Butterflies?”
The phone vibrates; Ryder is clearly an industrial-strength texter.
Ryder: how much longer?
Me: for what?
Ryder: very funny. i’m dyin here.
For sex? My stomach flips around a few times, and I stare at the screen.
I’ve never really made out with a boy. I mean, I’ve kissed a few, and even got tongue in eighth grade when Justin “Cheeto Boy” Reddick laid one on me after lunch, and I don’t think I’ve eaten a cheese puff since that day.
And at last year’s Spring Fling dance, fellow orchestra geek Alan Schumake did kiss me for a good, solid three-point-five minutes in the band locker room. (Lizzie was timing, as we had long ago decided five full minutes that included tongue and at least a side brush of boob constituted bona fide making out, so it didn’t officially count.)
And now that hunk is telling me he’s dying for … the real deal?
“Butterflies are what?” Charlie insists, tapping the phone so I’ll pay attention to him.
“They’re cute,” I say with a quick smile. “And maybe good luck, or is that ladybugs?”
He puffs out a breath of disgust. “I knew you were playing me. Shit. We’re toast on this test.”
“Quiz,” I shoot back. “It can’t be worth as much toward the grade.”
The room is pretty quiet; everyone is listening to this conversation. So this is what it’s like to be the polar opposite of invisible. I’m the center of attention, and for some reason, I feel like I have a reputation to maintain.
Ayla’s reputation, not Annie Nutter’s. I can’t mess with this … this … alternate reality I’m in.
“Two minutes!” Brighton announces.
“Why didn’t you read the book, anyway?” I ask Charlie. “You seem like a smart kid.” Except for the unfortunate hat choice.
“I’m interested in other things. Why else do you think I’d be in DK lit and not AP?”
“DK?” That’s a new one.
“Dumb kids.”
The phone buzzes with a text from Ryder again.
Ryder: gimme what you got!!
Seriously? I don’t know what shocks me most, Ryder’s style or the fact that Ayla is a dumb kid. “In my school, we just call it regular lit,” I say to Charlie.
He frowns. “This is your school.”
“Only briefly.” And something tells me if I screw with this dream state, I’ll be back in South Hills High before that timer dings.
“What should I write?” he asks, impatience growing.
“Whatever,” I say, sliding over my texts with total disinterest. “Say anything.”
“One minute.”
For some reason, my stomach is churning and I feel my palms dampen. Like, it’s killing me inside to deliberately fail a quiz. Who would want to be like that, anyway? Who would throw a test just to maintain an image?
Um, me. A-list Ayla.
But I am screwing this kid in the process, because I know the answer to the butterfly symbolism, and I know about the conch, too.
He blows out another breath, and I lean over. “Nature has no regard for man. Like when the butterflies are—”
He scowls at me. “What?”
“Just write it,” I urge in a whisper. “No regard for man.”
He does, considering the words. “I actually get that. What about the conch?”
Jeez, I gotta do this. Still, I fake like I’m reading a text on my phone.
“The conch, Ayla?”
I glance at him, caught by the glint in his dark eyes. “If it mattered so much to you, why didn’t you read the book?”
“ ’Cause I’m a science geek. Do this, and when you’re stuck in chem later this year, I’ll return the favor.”
Except I’ll be in Pittsburgh and he’ll be a dream I had once.
“Wrap it up, class!”
“It’s a symbol of order, leadership, and power.” I click to the text that just came in.
Ryder: i need answers!
Me: not now
I hit send before reality hits me. He’s not sexting, he’s trying to cheat. Jeez, I’m dense. I turn to look at Ryder, but the teacher is already collecting papers, and my boyfriend looks madder than hell.
Annie wouldn’t cheat, but Ayla? From what I know of this girl already, yeah. Of course she’d give her answers away. Most kids do, especially the cool ones.
Mr. Brighton passes Ryder and his partner—ironically, the kid who heckled my butt—giving them a look of disgust when he picks up a blank paper. When he reaches us, he takes Charlie’s paper and reads it, nodding.
“Well done, Mr. Zelinsky.”
“I had help,” Charlie says.
Mr. Brighton raises his eyebrows in a silent Yeah, right, but Charlie tips his hat back a bit and angles his head toward me. “I really did have—”
“It’s okay.” I stop him with a hand to the arm. “Team effort.”
Brighton nods and moves on, the silence behind him suddenly uncomfortable. Then the bell rings and I snag my bag.
“Hey,” Charlie says as I scoot away. “Thanks.”
I manage a totally disinterested look. “Forget about it.”
“I had you all wrong,” he adds, with a smile that’s surprisingly sweet.
“No, you didn’t,” I assure him. Then I escape into the hall before Ryder can catch up with me.
I try to blend into the student traffic, but it doesn’t take long before I realize that blending in is no longer part of my daily life.
CHAPTER NINE
The minute I leave fourth period, I’m flanked by Jade and Bliss. A few others trail like a wake behind me, but my right and left are inst
antly bookended by besties.
“Ryder is pissed beyond description,” Bliss announces. “He’s epileptic.”
“He’s epileptic?” I couldn’t tell that.
“I mean he’s just crazy furious with you.”
I frown at her. “Do you mean apoplectic?”
“Whatever,” Bliss shoots back. “He’s not happy.”
I shrug, but inside I’m kind of disappointed, and a little mad at myself for blowing it with the hot boyfriend before I’ve even gotten to know him. I’ve been kind of hoping to wake up having had at least a moderate dream make-out. Considering how real this whole thing is, I might be able to convince Lizzie to count it.
A funny twist squeezes at my gut, the same one that’s been annoying me all day.
Considering how real this whole thing is.
When is it going to not be so real?
“Oh, don’t look so upset, Ayla,” Jade says, shouldering me toward a bank of lockers. “Bliss is exaggerating.”
“I am not.” Bliss leans against the locker right before I open it, crossing her arms and flipping back some blond hair, revealing sizeable diamonds in her ears. Stolen, no doubt. “We cut third together and he told me.”
I smell a whiff of pot on her, although her eyes are bright. In my school, popular girls don’t get high during the day, just stoner kids do. But this isn’t my school. This isn’t even my life.
Which doesn’t stop me from wanting to know everything Ryder said.
“What did he tell you?” I ask, nudging her to the side so I can get to my locker.
“Ryder and I talk about a lot of things, Ayla.” There’s an unmistakable challenge in her voice. “You know we’ve always had a special friendship.”
I give her an incredulous look, trying to decipher exactly what that means. “How special?”
Bliss gives a dramatic and vague shrug. “All I know,” she says, “is that he’s sick of waiting for you to give it up.”
“Give what …” I stop before I sound like a complete moron. My V-card, of course.
“A flusterated boyfriend is not a happy boyfriend,” she singsongs.
“Flusterated?”
“Speak Bliss,” Jade whispers to me.
Don't You Wish Page 6
