by Marni Bates
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help hoping the whole being-friends thing would work. Partly because I could use all the journalism support I could get, but mostly because of his speech. It did suck being alone, but it wasn’t like I had no control over that situation. I chose to pine after my friends and wait for them to come around.
As far as plans go, that one hadn’t been working out too well for me.
Maybe instead of feeling sorry for myself because my best friends were moving on without me . . . I needed to do some branching out of my own.
I wasn’t about to start joining in trust exercises until after I finished catching up with my homework and writing my article, however. It turned out that those two tasks sucked up my entire weekend. Still, I thought my lack of a normal social life completely paid off when I strolled into the journalism classroom on Monday, story in hand.
Success.
Even watching Lisa Anne prowl around the classroom didn’t scare me—I was that confident my piece was onto something good.
“Your time is up, Grammar Girl.” She smirked. “What have you got for me?”
I opened my notebook and handed Lisa Anne a single loose page. Maybe it’s stupid and old-fashioned of me, but I enjoy writing first drafts by hand. It makes the words feel more personal to me.
And until my writing had the Lisa Anne seal of approval, I was choosing to consider it a first draft.
Lisa Anne barely scanned the page. “You’re kidding me with this, right?”
“Um . . . no.”
She laughed but not an amused, that’s funny laugh. “ReadySet Is Ready to Rock with Wilco. This is all you’ve got?”
“Well . . . yeah? Wilco is a huge name in the indie rock world, and teaming up with a more mainstream rock group like ReadySet could mean lots of cross-genre enthusiasm and sales revenue. It’s all there in the article—”
“What part of Get me a great cover story did you not understand, Grammar Girl? Scott says you got a backstage pass, and this is the best you could do? Pathetic.”
“But I thought—”
“No. See, that’s the problem: You didn’t think. You wrote a fluff piece. And now you get to continue your career in commas. Congratulations.”
“But it wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t. That’s not—”
“Hey, Grammar Girl! Mind looking this over for me?” Brad Crenshaw thrust his article at me. “Thanks.”
“Uh, sure.” I was not going to cry in front of the whole class. “Fine.”
I sat down and began focusing on basic sentence-structure stuff. Comma here. Apostrophe there. All the while I tried to block out my sense of utter stupidity for believing that Lisa Anne would ever like my story.
Scott had sat silently in his chair the whole time I was publicly reamed. Sure, we could be friends . . . if he understood the meaning of the word. It didn’t help knowing that he had pegged me as a failure from day one of the assignment, and that in the end, I proved him right.
“Just don’t say anything, okay?” I kept my eyes glued on the sheet riddled with grammatical errors even as I felt Scott hovering behind me.
“What happened? You crumbled.”
Apparently, even that one simple request was beyond him.
“I did not!”
“One second you were fine, and the next, you disintegrated.”
“What do you want, Scott?” I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “To gloat? You were right, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I can’t hack it. You were right.”
I handed Brad his stupid football article on my way out the door.
Scott was the only one who even noticed me leave.
Chapter 25
I still had my invitation to eat lunch with Chelsea.
But after the way my story had just been skewered by Lisa Anne, I wasn’t ready to navigate the Notables. Maybe my first impression of Chelsea had been horribly off base, but that didn’t mean I’d misjudged everyone.
I didn’t even feel up to seeing Miles.
Sure, I smiled back when he waved to me in the cafeteria, but then I dumped the remnants of my lunch in the trash and hid in the library until the bell rang.
If I hadn’t accidentally left my trusty notebook behind in journalism, I probably would have spent most of lunch writing fictional deaths. Although I was definitely starting to see the appeal in murder mysteries, starting with the mysterious disappearance of Lisa Anne Montgomery. Except after only a few minutes spent trying to imagine all the awful things that could befall her, I felt guilty, petty, and rather heartless.
Maybe instead she could watch The Devil Wears Prada and have some huge epiphany about not needing to make other people feel like crap to prove her own worth.
Yeah, and maybe she would hand me back my notebook with the suggestion that I write stories for a fiction page in The Smithsonian.
I wasn’t going to start placing bets on that happening either.
My concentration wasn’t exactly at the normal level of intensity the rest of the day. When I should have been paying attention to problems where f is continuous on (a, b) and F is any antiderivative of . . . I couldn’t muster up the energy to care. It blurred together while I wondered whether I was really going to finish high school stressing over college, complete my four years at the University of Something-or-Other freaking out over grad school, then join the real world only to be woefully unprepared since I had spent all my time with my head in a textbook.
All that line of thinking got me was a killer headache. So I took a deep breath and told myself that it was one stupid newspaper story. One failure for a school newspaper—not the final nail in my coffin or whatever. I could make a comeback. At the very least, someday I could reminisce about how something so insignificant ever seemed important.
Although since I wanted to live it down, I decided not to mention my recent failure to my parents or Elle. Instead, that evening I locked myself in my bedroom and tried to rewrite my ReadySet story.
Only five hundred more failures now lined my trash can.
“Janie!” my mom hollered at me through the door. “You need to come out now.”
Sometimes I really wish she would just call me Jane like everyone else.
“Um . . . just a minute?”
“Your boyfriend is here.”
I sat bolt upright. “My what?”
“Your boyfriend. Scott. I invited him over to dinner, remember? I thought you were getting ready!” I guess she expected me to be fussing over my appearance, which wasn’t a crazy assumption given the way I’d primped for Miles a few days ago. Not that my mom knew about my date with Romeo. But with Scott that effort struck me as an incredible waste of time. Who cared if I showed up in a color-coordinated outfit or in my loosest jeans?
Either way, I wouldn’t be writing fiction for the paper.
But while I didn’t rush to comb my disheveled hair, I definitely cared enough about what he might spill to my family members to rush downstairs.
“Um, hey,” I said self-consciously. “What are you doing—I mean, how are you doing?”
His lightning-quick grin made it clear he’d caught my slip. “I’m good. Lisa Anne wanted me to return this to you.”
Scott raised my notebook, and I nearly sagged with relief. At least I wouldn’t have to go searching for it now. Or asking Lisa Anne if she had seen it.
“Th—”
“He’s stopping by with her schoolwork. That’s so sweet!” Mom gushed. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”
Dad winced, probably because my mom had elbowed him. “Yeah. Real nice.”
Elle pulled out her most charming smile, in case it wasn’t already obvious why she was considered the popular one. “So how long have you two been dating?”
“No grilling,” I intervened, grabbing Scott’s arm. “I’ve got something I need to show Scott in my room. We’ll just go now.”
“The door stays open!” my dad hollered after us, even though there was no reason for him to worry.
Nothin
g was going to stop him from panicking over his little girl.
It probably didn’t help that in order to prevent Elle from “accidentally” overhearing us, I had to shut the door.
“You weren’t kidding about your family.” Scott’s smile made me feel incredibly gawky standing in my own bedroom. The dark green button-down shirt he wore brought out the color of his eyes, and I absentmindedly wondered why he’d changed since school. “They’re . . . intense.”
“Yeah, I know.”
There was an awkward conversational lull as Scott appeared to soak in the messy state of my room. The four-poster bed with a tangle of blankets, the underwear draped on my laundry hamper, the trash can literally overflowing with poorly written newspaper article attempts.
I forced myself not to make excuses.
“Nice room.”
“Thanks.”
Yet another long pause.
“I should leave. I can tell your parents that something came up, if you want.”
“No!” I blurted. “You can’t!”
Scott looked skeptically at me. “You seriously want me to stay?”
“Well . . . yeah. You can’t cancel on my mom now. She’s way too excited about it.” I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, it’s important that we, uh, stick to the story.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to introduce them to your real boyfriend instead? I’m betting Romeo would make a brilliant first impression.”
I folded my arms. “He’s not my boyfriend . . . yet. One date doesn’t merit that label.”
He shrugged and leaned back against my desk. “I thought you were mad at me earlier.”
“I usually am,” I said flippantly. “You know, most people don’t enjoy being told that they disintegrate under pressure. But I’m over it now.”
Scott didn’t look like he believed a word of it. “You sure?”
It was my turn to shrug. “It’s only a high school paper. So what if I can’t write my way out of a paper bag. Doesn’t matter.”
My voice sounded too rough for my own liking.
“It’s not that you can’t write.” Scott ignored my snort of derision while he gestured at my overfull trash can. “Your passion for it comes across on the page too.”
“How would you know?”
“I read your article after Lisa Anne. It would make an excellent thesis project, but it’s not the right material for the front page of The Smithsonian. It’s just . . . not the right tone.”
“You can come out and say what you think, Scott. It’s pretty obvious that ‘thesis project’ is your diplomatic way of calling it boring. Message received.”
Scott glared at me. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Really?” All my earlier frustration bubbled back to the surface. “That’s interesting. Then why did you tell Lisa Anne a month ago that, what was it? Oh yeah, that I couldn’t hack it as a reporter. What’s the story behind that, Scott?”
His green eyes narrowed. “So that’s why you stopped speaking to me. You overheard one conversation and ran to your friends instead of asking me about it. That explains a lot.” He pushed off from the desk, tension radiating from his body. “For the record: I still don’t see you as a journalist. My dad taught me that it takes a certain kind of drive to get at the heart of a story. That can’t be faked. No matter how hard you try, it’s going to sound off-key—rather like the gargling noises from your singing audition.”
“Hey!”
“That first day in class I thought you were shy and . . . funny. But you never pried. You didn’t look for an angle. If you had a natural instinct for journalism, you would’ve searched for a story. So, yeah, when Lisa Anne asked for my opinion, I told her the truth. I also mentioned that Brad and Kyle have yet to grasp the basics of the English language. But if you can’t handle my honesty, I’ll leave right now.”
It had never occurred to me that he was anything but a jerk when he criticized my journalistic abilities to Lisa Anne. Probably because the classroom is the only place where Elle doesn’t perpetually outshine me.
So maybe when the new guy began undermining my self-confidence there, I jumped to some conclusions.
All I knew was that I didn’t want to explain why my “boyfriend” needed to make a hasty pre-dinner departure.
“No. Stay.” I choked out the words. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Scott shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not sorry. You meant every word of it. I bet that if your family wasn’t waiting downstairs for us, you would’ve already kicked me out.”
“I apologized. Can we drop it?”
“For what, though? Apologized for making assumptions? For whining to your friends without bothering to get the story straight? Or are you just sorry that I’m calling you on it now? Which one is it, Jane? You tell me.”
When he put it that way, I was almost ready to plead guilty to all charges. But . . .
“Did I have it wrong?” I blurted out. “I mean, all of it? Because right after you spoke to Lisa Anne, you set your sights on taking photos of my best friend. Admit it: You were using me to get to Kenzie.”
“Let’s be clear: I didn’t use you to get a shot of Mackenzie, primarily because I don’t need any help in that area. I manage just fine on my own.”
I folded my arms. “Logan would stop you if you tried to get in her face.”
“Hockey Boy could certainly try to glower me to death. But when I want something, I get it.”
I couldn’t help wondering if one of those things he might want was Kenzie. It definitely sounded like he might be interested in my best friend. I couldn’t even fault his taste, if that was the case, because Kenzie has always been so . . . nice. But I also couldn’t help gritting my teeth.
“You do know she’s not going to break up with Logan, right?”
Scott glanced disdainfully at me. “Yeah, I think that’s pretty obvious to everyone. Although I still think she can do better.”
I forced myself not to say, Oh yeah? Because she could be dating you instead, right? Is that what you mean?
The last thing I wanted was to sound jealous.
“Okay.” I struggled to find the right words. “Well, then—”
“Dinner’s ready!” Elle hollered from downstairs. I eyed Scott nervously, unsure how to respond to our summons.
“So . . . are you staying?”
I held my breath, knowing that the way my entire family treated me for at least the next four months depended on his answer.
Scott shrugged noncommittally. “Fine. Let’s get it over with, already.”
With enthusiasm like that, what could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 26
The dinner could have been worse.
My dad never demanded that Scott reveal his intentions toward his youngest daughter, and my mom sniffled about my transition into womanhood through only half of the meal. Elle even passed on a few opportunities to make me look like a total geek. Much to my relief, they all appeared to be on their best behavior. And if Scott felt any residual annoyance with me, he didn’t let it show as he fielded their questions.
Even when my dad asked hundreds of follow-up questions about his brother’s military service, Scott never appeared rattled. Without so much as missing a beat, Scott said he was grateful modern technology made it possible for them to keep in touch . . . then changed the subject.
I couldn’t imagine anyone being a bigger hit with my parents, including Miles. Scott had exceeded their expectations. They weren’t going to take it well when I announced our fake breakup, especially if I tried to introduce them to someone else the next week. Not even Elle at her peak of Notable popularity ever moved through boyfriends that quickly. Maybe it would be best for me to hold off on that particular introduction until Miles and I became official—if we ever did.
I didn’t want to give my dad an aneurism.
Although I probably should’ve been more concerned about his eyesight, since I doubted the optometr
ist would recommend that my entire family press their noses against the kitchen window and peer outside while I escorted Scott back to his car.
That wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest.
Oh wait . . . yes, it really was.
Scott’s eyes gleamed wickedly in the light of a streetlamp. “Want to put on a show for our audience? A quick goodnight kiss to sell the act.”
I almost considered saying yes. Except did I really want my first kiss to be a performance for my parents with a guy who wished he could substitute my best friend for me?
Not so much.
Especially since I still had something-or-other going on with the most wonderful guy at my high school. Miles would never take advantage of the weirdness of the situation to push his own agenda. So even if my parents hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t have agreed.
Also, it was Scott. Scott Fraser. Never going to happen.
“Not going to happen,” I informed him, just so we would definitely be on the same page.
“Not even a hug? That would look suspicious to me.”
He had a point. I tentatively wrapped my arms around him while I did my best not to notice how good my body felt pressed against his. The way my every nerve snapped to attention. Then I tried not to shriek in surprise when his hands traveled, effectively transforming our hug into a very different kind of embrace.
“Hey there!”
“Yes?” Scott replied innocently.
“What was that?”
The glint in his eyes belied his casual shrug. “My hands slipped.”
Yeah, right.
But confronting him about it while my family watched from the kitchen seemed like a spectacularly bad idea, right up there with reconsidering my anti-kissing policy while I was still within a ten-mile radius of Scott. Horrible timing. Terrible plan.
And yet so very tempting.
“Um, okay. See you later!” I bolted straight back to my bedroom so that I wouldn’t have to hear my mom’s play-byplay account of the evening. That way I could analyze every detail of our hug until the memory was burned into my skin. Some of which I would have to immediately relay to Corey, excluding the part about Scott’s crush on Kenzie.
