“Trisha was mad when I told her I was going to the movies with you. She said I couldn’t go with you—not if I wanted her to still be my girlfriend, so I broke up with her.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you guys were like that.”
“Well, we were … and now we are again, because I told her I didn’t end up going with you—because it turns out, I didn’t. I went out with your weird friend.”
“Don’t you think Paige is super pretty?”
“Yeah, I guess. But she’s always acting—weird.”
“It’s because she likes you. That’s why she laughs so hard at your lame jokes.”
“Hey, they aren’t lame,” he says with an adorable smile.
Oh! His smile! It’s nice to suddenly see it, since he was being all mad and frowny. He never frowns—ever. Having him suddenly be that way was filling my stomach with knots and had my heart feeling like a tortured brick. But now his bright shiny smile has my heart soaring.
“Anyway,” I tell him, trying not to be distracted by his dreamy smile, “You must not have been too upset that I ‘sicced’ Paige on you. I mean, you kissed her.”
“I what?!” He sounds like I’m out of my mind.
“You kissed her!”
“No I didn’t.”
“She said you did.”
“Well, then she lied. I told you she’s weird. You should just stick to me for a best friend—all your other friends suck.”
He’s always saying that. But he’s just teasing. He likes to pretend he’s jealous of my other friends, but he’s not. At all. He has tons of friends. Gobs. He probably wishes I had more friends, so I didn’t hog him so much and he could spend time with his other friends.
“Look, I didn’t kiss her. I was polite to her. Well, as polite as I could be, since my heart was hurting—I mean, you stood me up. What kind of friend does that?”
Heat and shame go through me. “One that thought you might like a nice girl instead of stuck up Trisha.”
He eyes me curiously, “What do you have against Trisha?”
“I thought I just pointed that out—she’s stuck up.” I add, “She’s also conceited and mean.”
“She’s not mean to me,” he says with a grin. “She’s really nice to me.”
“Well, that’s because you’re a cute guy.”
His smile grows to epic proportions, “You think I’m cute?”
I ignite in flames, yet I ignore his teasing smirk. “I think you could do better than Trisha, best friend.”
“Well, until someone better comes along, wanting to date me, I’ll stick with Trisha.”
“Paige wants to date you. She’s better.”
“Um, she’s crazy.” He raises his eyebrows. “She said I kissed her,” he reminds me.
I open my mouth to protest, but then slowly shut it. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
Sardonically, he lifts an eyebrow. “Ya think?”
I scratch my chin. “Um, I’m going to have to get back to you on that.”
Paige had been so elaborate and detailed with her description of his ‘gentle, amazing’ kiss. It must have come out of her dreams or something.
I sigh. “Anyway, you’re back together with Trisha?”
He stares into my eyes, a flicker of amusement sparking in them. “No thanks to you.”
He adds, “By the way, you said it was ‘great’ that I was going to go out with her.”
“Right. It is. Totally great.”
He gives me a sideways look, then grunts.
CHAPTER 10
As soon as Conrad leaves, I confront Paige about the kiss. She smiles, embarrassed-like, but not as embarrassed as one would expect. I mean, she LIED!! Full on, flat out, lied.
She makes this tiny moan noise before she explains, “It was just he was being so perfect and sweet and I longed for it so bad—for him to kiss me. And I knew just how it would be—a kiss from him, because I dream about it constantly,” then she gives me this mischievous look as she totally calls me out, “—but you do too, January. I saw the way you were all haunted and tortured as I told you about our “perfect” date, and perfect kiss. You wanted it.”
She smiles as she announces, “So I just gave you a little nudge.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I gave you a wake-up call.” She groans at my blatant bewilderment. “WAKE-UP, January. You like him way more than just as a ‘best friend.’ You want to kiss him and have his ‘warm, soft lips’ press against yours.”
Oh! That was the exact description she had used about Conrad’s (fictional) kiss when she went on and on about it.
Sooo, she’s not so much crazy as she is … calling me out.
I click my tongue.
Well.
CHAPTER 11
After Paige’s strange call-out, I’m not sure what to do. I mean, there’s really nothing I can do, right? I mean, nothing has changed just because it’s so blatantly clear that I want Conrad that even Paige is making it paramount. I mean, it’s not like I can snap my fingers and make Conrad magically love me instead of Trisha.
Sigh.
As a distraction for my heartache I have my mom drop me off at the computer store while she goes grocery shopping. She’s been promising me a new laptop since mine died—over a month ago. I’ll give her a nudge towards the purchase by already selecting the laptop I want and having it ready and waiting for her wallet. The key is, I have to find the laptop … when I know absolutely nothing about laptops.
Lucky for me, after only a little while of me staring at the various laptops, a sales associate comes over to me with a friendly smile. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I tell him. “I’m looking for a laptop.”
“Oh, what kind?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I inform him.
“Oh,” he says, then he proceeds—very friendly and business-like—to tell me about the various kinds, and their capabilities and drawbacks. He’s extremely patient and helpful with my clueless questions.
Still, I’m glad when he finally says, “This is the one I have, but you don’t need a lot of the features it has for what you want it to do. It’s a good brand though—the best. I think you’d probably be happy with it’s cheaper sibling.”
I smile happily, “Well, if that’s what you recommend, then I’ll get it. I mean, you work here.”
“Actually, I don’t,” he says. “I was just here to buy a charger.”
“Um, oh.”
Awkward!
I’d taken up a lot of his time—I mean, a lot!
I bite my lip. “Um, sorry. I thought you worked here,” I tell him again.
“I go to your school, January.”
“Oh, you look older.”
He smirks good-naturedly. “How would you know? You haven’t even looked at me.”
“Oh,” I peek up at him—just to be polite. But once I do, I’m sort of surprised. He’s kind of cute. Really cute, actually. “You go to my school? Are you new?”
“I’m in your math class. And I was in your history class last semester.”
“Oh,” I’m not sure what to say. I mean, what can I say? “Uh, sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m not surprised you didn’t notice me.” He adds with a teasing smile, “Since all you notice is Conrad Ripley.”
“Th—that’s not true.”
“Yeah it is,” he says, his smile still teasing and playful. “But Conrad has a girlfriend now, right?—that cheerleader, Trisha? If you want to try to get over him, you can use me. I wouldn’t mind being used by you.”
“That’s sweet, but …”
“Look, I know I’m catching you off-guard—by, you know, entering your radar while not being Conrad. But why don’t I give you my number, and after this has time to sink in—a guy being not Conrad—then maybe you could text me, and we could go out for pizza, or, basically anything you want.”
“Oh,” I tell him again.
He takes my phone and punches his number in.
“Text me,” he tells me, then saunters away.
I stare at my phone. His name is Nate.
***
Okay, not gonna lie, I started dating every guy I could get my hands on once I realized Conrad was actually an official “couple” with Trisha—and, you know, Nate clued me into the fact there were actually other guys in the world, and they went to my school and stuff.
But sadly, it wasn’t real—my dating any of those guys, I mean. It was completely fake and empty and stupid. My heart just hurt because I missed having Conrad all to myself. And seeing him kiss a girl—torture! Though to be honest, he never did that in front of me—kissed Trisha. Whenever I was around and Trisha tried to kiss him, he would back away and give her a look like, “We’ve talked about this.”
And obviously what they’d “talked” about is that they don’t kiss in front of sad, pathetic January.
It was nice of him, but it made Trisha roll her eyes at me and give me dirty looks. (I hated Trisha!!) But she obviously hated me as well, right?
And well, face it, I didn’t make lots of friends with the guys I “dated” either. I couldn’t bring myself to even kiss any of them. I mean, it was one thing to spend a little time with them, and fake like I cared what they had to say. It was a whole other thing to think about letting their lips on mine. I didn’t want to waste my first kiss on an unfortunate guy that I was just using to try to get over the hurt I felt from seeing Conrad with another girl.
Nate was slightly different from the rest of the guys I used. I liked Nate. A pretty lot. But the thing was, he wasn’t Conrad.
So, Nate got no kiss. Or second date.
CHAPTER 12
Conrad dated Trisha for—at the most—a month. Well, okay, it was longer than a month—and to be honest, it felt like years, since seeing them together made me whimper inside. But I guess maybe they dated two months. Or maybe three? Anyway, once that painful “coupling” finally crashed and burned, Conrad went through this weird phase. It was like he was trying to win the Guinness Book of World Records of dating the most girls. He went through like, three a week. I kid you not. And there started to be messages scrolled about him on the school’s bathroom walls. About how he was a true “giver.”
I didn’t know what it meant, but I didn’t like it—things written about my Conrad that I knew absolutely nothing about.
Trisha didn’t seem to like it either. The messages made her cry. I would have been happy about that (maybe) if the messages didn’t make me want to cry too. But they did.
But even when Conrad went crazy, dating girl after girl, he still always had time for me. Though now whenever I suggested we do anything he’d say, “And you’re really going to show up, right? I mean, you’re not going to sic another crazy girl on me, right?”
“No. You get enough crazy girls of your own these days,” I mumbled.
He ran a hand over his face. “Yeah. I’ve got to stop doing that.”
But he didn’t.
CHAPTER 13
***Sophomore Year***
Sophomore Year (back when we were still “best friends”)
“Why do you want to be a cheerleader?” Conrad grumbled.
I shrugged. “Why do you want to be a hockey player?”
He rolled his eyes. “Because I’m awesome at it—duh.”
He says the word “duh” mockingly, like a teeny-bopper girl. It makes me laugh.
I swipe the last slice of pizza as I inform him, “Well, I’m going to rock being a cheerleader. Besides, I need to be more social and have more friends than just you.”
“No, you don’t need more friends. I’m all you need.” He draws out a breath, “I’m only half-kidding, you know that right? I don’t want you to become friends with stupid snobby cheerleaders. They’ll change you. I don’t want that. I like you the way you are.”
A jet of warmth rushed through me. I was touched beyond words. But the truth was, since he started dating girl after girl I’d become insecure about our friendship. I didn’t like feeling that way—desperate and needy, and ready to cry when I saw messages about him on bathroom walls. But I couldn’t tell him any of that.
Instead I scoffed, “Well, thanks, but give me some credit. They aren’t going to ‘change’ me.” I smirked, “And do I really need to point out that your current girlfriend used to be one of those said “stupid” cheerleaders? Besides, being a cheerleader will look good on my college applications—you know, well-rounded and extracurricular, I hear its important.”
He sighed. “I guess.”
I was touched he seemed sad. Touched that he cared so much about perhaps losing me. Or anyway, fake-scared about us not getting to be so close. It was nice. I liked it.
***
Tryouts for cheerleader went awesome. (Hey, I’m a dancer—so not super shocking.) Way less of a shocker than winning eighth-grade class president—when I wasn’t even there to give my speech.
However, I’m pretty excited. Cheerleaders are considered a big deal at our school—and this is high school, not our sweet little middle school. Competition is pretty fierce.
But I made it—yay!
However, for the initiation onto the squad, the cheerleaders woke me up this morning and blindfold me. It’s a Saturday, so my plans to sleep until noon are axed. Now instead, I’m blindfolded while cheerleaders “make me up.” Apparently that means getting me dressed and doing my hair and make-up. I assume they are making look like a clown or dork, but I don’t care. I’m a cheerleader!
“You’re going to have to be a slave the whole day,” they tell me, which I already knew. (Hey, I’m not the first cheerleader at our school to ever be initiated.) “But we’re not going to tell you who you are a slave to.”
Right. I know this too. But it usually ends up being to the head-cheerleader, or to the cheerleading coach who makes the slave/cheerleader-to-be do her errands, like wash her dog and clean her bathroom. Not fun, but it’s only a day.
I’m resigned to it as the cheerleaders lead me out my front door and practically drag me to the destination. I mean, I’m blind, parading down my sidewalk dressed like a ridiculous dork—blindfolded no less. It’s a little embarrassing having no clue what I look like, or who is seeing me look like it.
When we finally get to the destination, the cheerleaders lead me up some stairs and have me get into what I assume is a closet. “You have to stay here and be quiet,” they tell me.
Then they leave.
And I’m alone.
In the dark.
Due to, you know, the blindfold.
Finally, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and a door opens. But not to the closet. It must be to a bedroom. Hmm, apparently I’m in a bedroom closet.
Okay, so it must be the coach’s closet, since I’d heard Bianca’s voice when I was instructed to stay here and be quiet, and Bianca is head cheerleader, so it can’t be her that I’m going to be a slave to.
Thank goodness! I really, really didn’t want to be Bianca’s slave.
But when the closet door is finally opened, immediately I know it’s not the coach who finds me.
I hear an astonished intake of breath as the word, “Whoa!” is gushed out.
“January?”
The voice is both shocked and bewildered, and—gasp!—Conrad’s!
I gulp.
Oh no! Conrad is seeing me like this—made up embarrassingly and ridiculous.
—that’s my first thought.
But then it dawns on me: I’m going to have to be Conrad’s slave.
I cringe, expecting him to crack up laughing, but he doesn’t. He seems to be staring at me, and breathing weirdly. This is weird.
Maybe he’s laughing so hard he’s having trouble breathing.
“What?” I groan into the silence, and try to take off the blindfold, but my wrists are still tied, so no matter how hard I try, I can’t manage.
“Hold still,” he tells me huskily, then he gently takes the blindfold off me.
He does it so careful and gentle, warm sparks rush through me.
He stares at me a long moment and swallows. “You’re going to be my slave?”
I shrug, “Apparently.”
The way he just keeps staring at me makes me feel funny. “What, are you going to make me clean your disgusting bathroom?”
He cocks his head. “You’re not exactly dressed to clean toilets.”
I look down at what I’m wearing and gasp. Nope. Not dressed to clean toilets, that’s for sure. Or clean anything. I’m dressed to drop jaws. And make Conrad get in hot water with Fawna. (I’m dressed super-duper sexy, in case you haven’t figured that out.)
Poor Conrad doesn’t seem to know what to make of this. He just keeps staring and staring.
“It’s a joke,” I explain to him. “The cheerleaders are mad at Fawna, so apparently they dressed me like this to be your “slave” to make Fawna mad.” I squeak out, “It’s a joke.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, since he didn’t seem to be able to look away. “Yeah, really funny,” he murmurs.
He pauses—a long time. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Um, you can send me home,” I propose quickly.
With his eyes still closed he grins slightly. He suddenly looks very mischievous. He says, still not opening his eyes, “No, I actually like the thought of you as my slave. But you’re going to have to change your clothes.” He turns away, still (very purposely) not looking at me. He grabs his favorite sweatshirt and holds it out to me. “Put this on,” he tells me, still not looking at me.
I put it on, suddenly enthralled with this moment—because I’m all at once enveloped by the scent of Conrad. I breathe it in (the sweatshirt), suddenly dizzy and warm—Mmmm, Conrad.
He grins. “I have you all to myself for the full day.”
I roll my eyes. “What are you going to do?—make me do your laundry?”
“No I’m going to make you sing,” he says, picking up his guitar. “And then dance—like you do up on the stage.”
The Boyfriend Contract Page 4
