It was a fucking awful compromise, but I was backed into a corner. And now, it was a bitch keeping the secret.
Well, not from everyone. I don’t even know how Mick figured it out so quickly, except for the fact that he had some kind of enormous genius brain. The minute he knew, I was so embarrassed I could die. It was bad enough that he was like, the smartest guy I’d ever been in the presence of, but now he knew I couldn’t even keep my grades up enough to attend the college we were both supposed to go to.
He kept pressing me for information, which only made me feel like more of a loser. If he knew what I’d done to land myself in this position, he would think so much less of me. Shit, I don’t know how his opinion of me could get any lower, with how I’d treated him and now with what he’d found out about me.
Him offering to tutor me? I never saw that one coming. Mick was just too caring and too honest of a guy, and I felt like an asshole taking advantage of that. But … he could teach me more than I could ever learn on my own. He was a freaking biology major, for crying out loud. I couldn’t not take him up on it.
And I wanted to see him again. That electrical charge that had always sparked between us was still there. I thought about him, about the sex we’d had, all the time. When it’s that good, you can’t not crave it. And man, was I craving it.
“Are you ready to go?” Maddy pops her head into my room.
I slick one last coat of matte lip-gloss on my mouth, and look in the mirror, primping. “Yeah, I think so. I can’t believe it’s already the annual jungle party.”
Her tiny two-piece cheetah outfit highlighted her long, lean body. “I know. I feel like we just got here and now we’re on the cusp of one of the best parties of the year.”
The football house, the one where Charlie and Darell live, always throws an epic jungle-themed party in the middle of September. Christine, Madison, and I had all gone shopping for our outfits last weekend, pulling together scraps of material that covered our most essential bits. I had on a white leopard two-piece that was nothing more than a bathing suit top and mini-skirt.
“I have fireball shots ready on the counter!” Christine yells from the kitchen.
Madison races out of my room, and I comb my fingers through the curls I twirled into them tonight. Since the two of them think I got off scot-free from the fountain incident, they think it’s business as usual. I’m always down to drink, no matter what night of the week it is, and by drink I mean party my ass off.
I’m the ecstatic kind of drunk who only gets happier as the night goes on. Dance parties, pranks, sappy conversations, that’s me. I’ve been gifted the ability to drink copious amounts of alcohol without getting sick, and it’s just fun.
But now, after everything that’s happened, I’m more cautious. Each weekend we’ve gone out, I stay lucid enough to probably drive, which isn’t my normal. I have to pretend that I’m as drunk as my friends, and I’m on edge a lot.
I can’t risk getting myself into more trouble, at least not this year. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to miss out on my favorite moments with my friends.
So I take the Fireball shot with my friends and then resign myself to water and lime the rest of the night.
It seems like I’m keeping all kinds of things hidden these days.
9
Mick
“No, he needs to be doing more of the hand bike exercises. Yes … yes, I understand that, Bernie, but he was really making good progress with that before I left.”
Dad’s physical therapist argues with me on the other end of the phone, saying something like if I think that, then maybe I should come home and exercise with my father.
I have to bite my tongue so hard, I swear I taste blood.
“Of course, I’d like to do that, Bernie. Unfortunately, I’m at college, working to get a degree so that I can help my dad even more than you are!”
This conversation has gone on for five minutes too long, and I really shouldn’t snap at him like this. He’s done a great job with Dad so far, and I’m just getting on his case for not accepting my input. He’s the expert, but I’m the one who knows Dad best. It’s rude and ungrateful to yell at the people who are helping to care for my father, but I’m at my wit’s end.
And him suggesting that I’m not around enough for my family is like pouring acid in a gunshot wound.
Bernie says something in a clipped tone and tells me not to call him anymore. That if I have a suggestion, I can send it through my mother. And then he hangs up on me.
It takes everything in my body not to throw my phone at the brick wall of the room I reserved in the library. I’m just so fed up. Nothing with Dad’s treatments has gone right this week. His neurologist saw decreased hand motion at his appointment on Thursday. The gastroenterologist claims that he may need a feeding tube soon if the muscles in his throat don’t allow him to swallow enough food. And now I’ve got Bernie on my case, because he should be doing everything in his power to increase Dad’s mobility, not decrease it.
And on top of all that, I have my first study session with Jolie today. We agreed, after she texted me again asking for a date and time, that we’d meet on Friday at two in the library. I reserved us a room, since I didn’t need any more dirty looks thrown my way if she decided to pick a bone with me.
But my nerves are up to my ears and my temper isn’t far behind it. I’m usually a pretty level-headed guy, but the stress of being away from home has intensified since I’ve been at Salem Walsh. I’ve been focusing so much on my own studies, securing an internship, and forming some kind of friendship with my roommates, that everything else seems to be slipping through the cracks.
Add Jolie on top of that, and I’m one eye twitch away from being committed.
Looking at my watch, I see that Jolie is already five minutes late, and that ticks me off even more.
Another minute goes by, and then the door to the room bangs open, a swirl of burnt orange dress, a gauzy olive scarf and her signature scent swirling around in a tornado of hecticness.
“Sorry, sorry! I really didn’t mean to be late, but I stopped to get us coffees.” She sets the two to-go cups from the Pub down on the table.
I do a bit of a double take, surprised at the thoughtful gesture. Part of me was expecting her to show up late, but not because she was grabbing me a coffee.
My eyes are also glued to her. Every time I see Jolie Kenner, it’s like being blinded by car lights on the other side of the road at night. You know they’re coming, but they still temporarily blind you, leaving spots on your vision long after they’re gone. Jolie’s beauty is kind of like that. It whacks you like a beam of light right to your cornea, and you can’t focus on much else until she’s long gone.
Jolie pushes the one she must have gotten for me toward my side of the table. “Black with two Stevias, right? I thought I remembered correctly.”
And now I’m even more floored. I didn’t even think she remembered me two seconds after she got in her car to leave Camp Woodwin, and here she is remembering how I take my coffee? The panic and ire that had been causing my blood pressure to double suddenly starts to dissipate.
“Yeah, thanks.” I sip on it, observing her as she unloads her bag onto the table and then pops into the seat across from me.
“So, we’re working on chemical bonds and intermolecular forces, which is basically gibberish to me. Ask which foundation works best on oily skin, and I’m your girl. But this? I don’t compute.”
Jolie laughs self-deprecatingly at herself, and I can’t help but watch the way her mouth forms a smile, or wonder if she still tastes the same in that spot right beneath her earlobe. Her dark eyes assess me, and there it is. That zing of electricity, of recognition, that’s always been between us. Suddenly, I gravely regret the decision to get a private room. We’re alone in here, on the fourth floor of the library, and I haven’t heard or seen anyone in the twenty minutes I’ve been sitting in here. There isn’t enough space between us, the walls feel lik
e they’re forcing us in, like they want to make us talk.
I clear my throat, grappling for normalcy. “Actually, the exact science of what foundation works best on oily skin can be attributed to chemical bonds and intermolecular forces. So let’s try to frame it in that way.”
Jolie nods slowly, but I know she isn’t nodding at what I just said. She’s acknowledging it, the heat bubbling up between us. I don’t have any room for that in my life, so I put my head down, ignoring it. Does part of me want to push all the books off the table in a frantic moment and take her right here? Yes.
But the rational part of me, the one who just got off the phone after arguing with a professional physical therapist, knows there is no sense in that.
For the next half hour, we put our heads down and focus on the work. This is secondhand to me, I completed most of this biology work in high school. Reading these studies, working on science problems and hypotheses is to me what makeup and fashion is to Jolie. I speak the language fluently, and I never really had to learn it.
I know for her, though, that this is like trying to learn Italian as a thirty-year-old. It just doesn’t stick as well as it would for a toddler. So I reframe the study guide, put it in terms that she’ll understand. After some initial hiccups, we start to get on the same page. I’ve never tutored before, but I’ve been in plenty of study groups, so I know how to work with someone else over shared scientific knowledge.
We complete almost half of the study guide before the hour I’ve designated to tutor her is up, and before I know it, we’re packing up.
Something like nostalgia or homesickness clings to the air, and I can’t help but look up at Jolie when my books are safely in my backpack.
Her brown eyes are hooded by those impossibly black, full lashes, and there is a slight flush to her cheeks. She looks innocent at this moment, when most of the time Jolie looks fierce and intimidating.
“So, do you need help next week?” I ask, hesitant.
I really shouldn’t be offering, but I can’t help myself. It felt good to accomplish something, to help someone. I couldn’t do anything to further my dad’s treatment, but I could do this.
“Yeah, that would be great.” She nods. “I … I really do hope you’re liking it here. Salem Walsh is a great school, and I know you’re so smart.”
Neither of us has made a move for the door. “Thanks. Yeah, I’m really enjoying it so far.”
A beat of silence passes.
“How much do I … um, owe you?” Jolie fidgets with the strap of her purse on her shoulder.
She could have taken an axe to my heart and it would have hurt less. Christ, is this how it works in her reality? She pays the hired help so she doesn’t have to feel guilty for hiding the fact that she slept with them previously? Am I just her charity case?
“I’m not doing this for money. Is that what you think? Jesus, you really don’t think highly of those not in your financial stratosphere.”
Brushing past her, I narrowly miss hitting her with my shoulder. It’s aggressive, and I’m pissed off.
I hear Jolie’s sandals clacking behind me as I make for the stairs. “Wait, Mick, that’s not what I meant …”
Beyond furious, I whirl around. “You’re a real piece of work, Jolie. I offer to help you because it’s kind and the right thing to do, even after you snubbed me. I did it because it seems like you’re in deep, and forgive me for being so goddamn naive, but I thought we actually shared something this summer! You really are everything I always warned myself about. Keep your money. Good luck getting back into Salem Walsh.”
Bursting through the staircase door, I take them down two at a time, hoping like hell Jolie isn’t following me. When I get to the bottom of the library, winded and spitting mad, she’s nowhere to be seen.
Figures. A girl like her would wait for the elevator to do the work for her.
10
Jolie
Our ranch house bumps with the vibrations of a Spice Girls song as Madison’s epic pre-game playlist echoes through the house.
“Tell me what you want, what you really, really want!” Christine sings as she floats through my door.
She looks incredible in a skin-hugging black dress and high-heeled sandals.
It’s still warm even though we’re teetering on the edge of October, and we’re going to take full advantage of the weather before we all have to cover up in sweaters and jeans.
“If you were a Spice Girl, which would you be?” Maddy asks as she comes in, flopping down on my bed.
“I’d be Sporty,” Christine talks over both of us.
Maddy and I share a look and then crack up. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“What? She’s serious and determined, like I am.” She puffs out her barely covered breasts.
I shrug. “Sure, but you’re also bossy, can be cold, and you have the little black dress to boot.”
She pouts her lip. “Fine, it’s a tie. Who are you two, so I can shoot those theories down?”
The flat iron runs over my hair for a last pass through, and I listen as Madison goes.
“Baby Spice, for sure.”
I nod in the mirror, looking at them as they sit on my bed together. “Definitely. Sweet, a little naive, and totally cute.”
“And you?” they both ask in unison.
“Duh, Scary Spice.” I give them a devilish smirk.
They crack up, nodding in agreement. “You’re the one who is always daring someone to go further. I also don’t think you’ve ever been scared of anything.”
Christine’s words hit that nauseous, sick feeling in my gut. If only they knew how scared I am right now.
I failed this week’s quiz in biology, and I feel like drowning my sorrows. After Mick blew up at me in the library, I texted him a few times to apologize. And after a few days had passed, I even swallowed my ego and asked for his tutoring help again. Because surely, without his expert way of reframing the subject for me, I am going to fail the class.
He’d never answered, which apparently was how he was going to handle all of my communications from now on. I feel like a grade-A bitch. The way he took it is absolutely not what I meant by it, but looking back, I can see how stupid of me that was. Of course, Mick was just helping me because he was a nice guy. But I was used to people only doing stuff for me or wanting to be close to me because of my money. Because of who my family is. It wasn’t until I got to Salem Walsh that I saw how true friends operate, and it’s hard to break that mindset.
Now, I’d not only screwed over the one connection I had to possibly scoring a passing grade and becoming a full-time Salem Walsh student again, but I’d completely severed my relationship with Mick. I’m not dumb, I know that there was a moment in that library room that we almost tackled each other across the table. Anything I was wishing could still happen between us has been extinguished, because of my asinine, loose lips.
Lord, I think I need that drink right about now.
So I know what I said about cooling down on the partying, but I’ve earned this night of reckless fun. As long as I keep it to drinking and remaining in my clothes, I’ll be fine.
“Okay, how do I look?” I ask, twirling around to show them my outfit.
I picked my shortest, high-waisted black shorts, the ones that practically mold to my body. I’ve paired them with a bright white crop top, that has a dotted, lace shell over it. And the black, six-inch scrappy sandals I’m wearing only add to the outfit.
“Killer.” Madison smirks.
“Like you’re on a mission to do something bad,” Christine agrees.
“Perfect, that was just what I had in mind. What are we drinking?”
We venture into our kitchen, where liquor bottles in all stages of emptiness litter the biggest counter. We all stand in front of it, surveying the options, and Madison pulls down our colorful array of shot glass options from the cabinet above. The glasses have been collected over our two, almost three, years here. There are several with differen
t locations we’ve vacationed at, one with the Eiffel Tower from my trip to Paris last winter. One simply has a penis in the middle of it that lights up neon colors when a switch is flipped. There is another that reads “Oh, just swallow it, you’ve had bigger things in your mouth than this.”
They’re all either raunchy, sentimental, or hilarious, and we love choosing one each night. Tonight, I opt for a dark pink shot glass that has the ingredients for a cosmopolitan on it, and then grab a bottle of raspberry vodka.
“That raspberry vodka literally gives me flashback dry heaves.” Madison looks like she might be sick, and we haven’t even taken a shot yet.
Christine cringes. “That’s what the 99 Bananas vodka does to me. Remember, I almost had to have my stomach pumped?”
I nod, remembering that awful night. We all have one, the liquor that makes us dry heave even if we’re in the middle of a class on a Tuesday afternoon or watching a movie over break with our parents.
I raise my hand. “Gin. Gets me every time.”
My friends pick their glasses and poison of choice, and we all dole out a shot.
“To being Spice Girls,” Madison proposes, and then it’s bottoms up.
As we take the first shot, it burns my throat.
And tastes like one epic night on the way down.
11
Mick
There is absolutely no reason I should be in a place like this.
It’s louder than anywhere I’ve ever been before, and I’m pretty sure the seventh circle of hell isn’t this hot. The whole place smells like grain alcohol and sweat, and I’m pretty sure I have both of them clinging to my skin, put there by other people. I just saw a girl vomit into her Solo cup, and I’m pretty sure there is a couple on the makeshift dance floor in the living room actively having sex.
Nerdy Little Secret Page 5
