Carry on I did. For the next three weeks I not only juggled my own busy schedule and homework, but Grady’s columns too. Each week, Grady’s column got more attention and more and more buzz throughout school. The success of Grady’s columns should have eased my guilt. They hadn’t. Guilt still had my stomach churning.
The problem was I hardly saw Grady so I hadn’t been able to talk with him. He rarely showed up for first period. When he did make it, it was usually just before the bell rang at the end of class. He’d collect his detention slip from Mr. G and stroll out of the room before I’d had a chance to gather up my books. I was beginning to think he was avoiding me. Which only reinforced that maybe he was still upset with me. I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I decided to apologize one more time. That was how I ended up on Grady’s doorstep, ringing his doorbell at seven on Thursday evening.
The door opened and a boy who looked about my age flashed me a smile. Grady’s brother maybe? Although the two looked nothing alike.
“Hell-ooo.” His hello was drawn out and his gaze up-and-downed me in such a way that I was glad for my stylishly too-big sweater that covered me from neck to knees.
“Um, hi. Is Grady here?”
“Nope. But I am. Chad Pennington.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe I can help you instead?”
“Chad, was that the front door?” A woman entered the foyer behind Chad from around the corner. “Oh, hello. Chad, invite your friend inside.”
“Oh—no—”
“Yeah, come in.” He grabbed my elbow and hauled me into the house.
From the foyer, you could see straight through to the kitchen and family room. The house was small, but cozy, and tastefully decorated. Thankfully, his mom stayed in the foyer so I wasn’t alone with Chad. Something about the guy rubbed me the wrong way.
“I’m Lacey Trueheart. I go to school with Grady,” I said. “You have a lovely house, Mrs. Burnett.”
“Thank you. Although, I’m Mrs. Pennington. I remarried after…” she trailed off.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Grady mentioned his dad’s passing.”
“Ah ha ha.” Shockingly, Chad busted a gut over this. “That is hilarious.”
“I don’t—I’m not sure I understand.” Confused, I turned to Grady’s mom.
“Grady’s father isn’t dead,” Mrs. Pennington said.
“He isn’t?” I blinked a few times, as I digested what she’d said.
“Nope. He’s not dead; he’s just a deadbeat.” Chad smirked. Why would a guy be happy about a situation like this?
“I guess I misunderstood.” I hadn’t misunderstood. I know exactly what Grady had said. The guilt that had been sloshing around in my stomach, clenched into a hot coil of anger.
“Or Grady told another one of his lies,” Chad said.
“Chad.” Grady’s mom frowned at him before turning back to me. “You’re welcome to wait for him. He should be home soon.”
“I’ll keep you company, Lacey.” Chad puffed out his chest and sent me a too warm—bordering on smarmy—smile.
“No, thanks. I’ll catch him at school tomorrow.” I reached for the door, anxious to leave before my feelings toward Grady exploded. “It was nice meeting you.”
“See you at school, Lacey!”
Not if I could help it. Besides, I might be too busy murdering his step-brother.
Once inside my car, I counted to ten, attempting to calm down and think clearly. When I thought of the tears I’d shed. The guilt I’d carried around for the last few weeks.
I took in a slow breath, pulled out my phone, and made a call.
“Layla, I sent you the wrong file for tomorrow’s column. I’m sorry! I’ll have the corrected one to you in an hour.”
That lazy, lying, thinks-he’s-too-cool, bad boy had crossed with the wrong girl.
7
One Taco Short of a Combination Plate
Grady
It was amazing what an early night could do for a guy. I was actually on time for school today. Of course, being up early meant having to deal with my step-brothers in the kitchen this morning. Something I usually tried to avoid, which was probably part of why I was late so often. I mean, I had to deal with them at dinner every night, so it was pure self-preservation to avoid them in the mornings.
I figured I’d get a few surprised looks and even some high-fives for making it to school on time. That wasn’t what I got at all. Instead, I got giggles, snarky laughs, rolled eyes, and slaps on the back. I got a “So busted, dude” and a “You’re going to get stomped!” but mostly a lot of “Hahaha”s.
It was very weird. If this was the way people acted early in the morning, maybe I’d stick to being late.
“This is going to be an interesting semester.” Ali Frost arched an eyebrow at me from where she stood at her locker. Ali was one of those cool chicks who did her own thing without worrying about what other people thought. Somehow she’d made bowling cool.
Dax, one of my best friends and Ali’s boyfriend, stood next to Ali shaking his head at me and running a finger across his throat, like I was in danger. Huh.
The weirdness kept on going when I entered journalism class. Mr. Garrison actually stopped cleaning his dry erase board to watch me walk in and sit down. Then again, I guess my being on time was similar to spotting a rare creature in the wild.
“Morning, Mr. Garrison.” What else was I going to say since he was still standing staring at me? All this staring and laughing had me feeling like I was missing a joke. I actually looked down to make sure I had pants on. I did.
“Mr. Burnett, you’re either very brave or—what’s the phrase I’m looking for?—ah, yes, one taco short of a combination plate.” Mr. Garrison snickered at his own lame joke.
What was he talking about? One taco short of a combination plate?
The whole class laughed along with Mr. Garrison. Everyone except Lacey, that was. Lacey sat in her front-row seat, fidgeting with some sparkly set of bracelets on her wrist, her face smooth—no expression at all. Which was unusual since she was usually smiling.
“Okay, class, let’s settle down.” Mr. Garrison held up the latest copy of the Jackson Journal. “Great job on this week’s edition. I think I can say—thanks to our team of advice columnists—this edition is a hit.”
Lacey glanced my way, her cool gaze holding mine for a long few seconds before she moved her attention back to the front of the room. Huh.
“Uh, Mr. Garrison?” I raised my hand. “May I borrow your copy? I haven’t had a chance to see all the columns. And the layout. Since we’re all a team, I’d like to appreciate everyone’s work.”
“That’s a great idea, Grady. It’s good to appreciate teamwork.” Mr. Garrison cracked a toothy smile, handing the paper down the row to me. Everyone around me snickered. Lacey rolled her eyes. “Let’s begin with the advice column. Please, go ahead and read it out loud for all of us to appreciate.”
“Don’t do it, dude,” Josh hissed from the seat behind me.
“I’m confused.” Gwen blinked at me. “Why wouldn’t he want to read his own column?”
Why wouldn’t I want to read it? One look at Lacey’s serene profile had my warning siren blaring loud and clear.
“You know what, Mr. G? Never mind. I don’t want to waste class time,” I said, handing the paper back up the row to Mr. G. “I’ll look it over later.”
“This could actually be a very teachable moment—for at least one student in this class.” Mr. Garrison opened the paper and cleared his throat. “Since you seem a bit shy about tooting your own horn, I’ll read it aloud.”
Oh, boy.
Dear Mr. Jackalope,
I need your help! I’m stuck being partners with the world’s laziest student! My grade depends on this guy to contribute—aka actually work. He. Does. Nothing. If he isn’t lazy, then it’s possible he’s an experiment in Artificial Stupidity. He’s a football player, so maybe he’s taken one too many hits to the helm
et. Or there’s simply too much yardage between the goal posts. I don’t want to fail just because I’m stuck working with a guy who’s one taco short of a combination plate. Please help!
~ Stuck with a Freeloader
P.S. I think he lied to me. Is lying ever okay?
Yep. I was busted. I didn’t know how Lacey had found out I’d lied to her after all these weeks, but she obviously had. I should have known she wouldn’t let me get away with it. And to be honest, I was interested in hearing Mr. Jackalope’s response. Knowing Lacey, it was sure to be good.
Dear Stuck with a Freeloader,
I’m sorry you’re in this situation. Let me go on the record to say teachers who make a student’s grade dependent on another’s work ethic…well…they just suck.
Mr. Garrison paused, lifted his head, and raised an eyebrow at Lacey who just shrugged. He turned back to reading, enjoying it entirely too much in my personal opinion.
Now, let’s assume your partner is a dim bulb. If this is the case, there’s not much you can do except have pity on the poor kid. You’re only stuck with him for a semester. Sure, you’ll take a hit to your grade, but it’s a temporary situation. This poor kid will always be a few French fries short of a Happy Meal.
What if he isn’t dumb, but simply lazy? Then the guy deserves to be kicked in the behind. Call the dude out on his laziness. Maybe even a bit of public humiliation will force him to carry his weight. But be prepared to suck up the bad grade, just in case. People who are lazy often slither through life like snakes. Or live off the work of others like cockroaches feast off crumbs in a kitchen.
On lying…lying is only okay if it’s done to spare someone’s feelings, and even then, this mythical rabbit still suggests that honesty is always the best policy. Lying for any other reason is not okay. Your lazy, lying assignment partner is definitely a cockroach. Feel free to stomp on him if he’s unwilling to apologize and change his ways.
Keep Calm and Hop On,
Mr. Jackalope
Everyone laughed. Loudly. Except for Lacey. She didn’t find anything about it amusing. And Jody and Gwen were a bit lost, but then subtext was often lost on them.
“I don’t know why everyone thinks it’s funny,” Jody said, her gaze shot around the students like a red-hot laser as if she was insulted on my behalf. “I think your answer was amazing, Grady.”
“Yeah, Grady, that was super-awesome!” Gwen batted her eyelashes at me. “So deep and honest.”
And there it was. A mirror reflection of my sins. Deep and honest? No. Shallow and dishonest. Manipulative. Avoiding my responsibility. Lacey had called me out on it publicly. And she was right.
I took my time leaving class, so I could apologize. Only today, she was the one who bugged out quickly and I had to race after her, weaving through the crowded hallways until I finally caught up to her at her locker.
“Lacey, I want to—”
She put her palm up, stopping me.
“I hope your next word is ‘apologize’ but I’m still too mad at you to listen. Try me later today.”
“Okay.” Fair enough. I nodded and watched her walk away.
I tried again after lunch, tracking her and her friend Bernie down where they sat in the cafeteria.
“Lacey—”
“Still not ready.”
Right. It was only at the end of the day in the student parking lot that Lacey finally listened to me.
“All right, Lacey Jane, are you ready now?” I set my backpack and guitar case next to me and pulled in a breath.
“Ready.” She closed the trunk of her car, leaned back against it, and notched her chin up at me. “I am down to a low simmer.”
“I’m sorry.” I looked her straight in the eyes, trying to let her see how sincere I was. “What I did was wrong and there is no excuse for it.”
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes before nodding. “I accept your apology.”
“What can I do to make up for it?” I asked.
“Your share of the work?” she said.
“That’s it? You’re not going to make me grovel first?” A lot of girls would want a good grovel.
“Nah.” She shrugged. “Watching people laugh at you over the column went a long way to helping me feel better. But if you try anything like that again…”
“And face your wrath?” Lacey may be the nicest girl around, but she wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself. Something I admired about her. “No way. I’m sorry. From here on out we’re team Mr. and Ms. Jackalope. Let’s do this. Phone?”
I held out my hand and she stared at it for a long moment before relinquishing her phone. I programmed my number in, then sent a text from her phone to mine.
“There. Now we have each other’s numbers.” I handed it back to her with a wink. “And, the text you just sent me… Totally agree.”
She narrowed her eyes at me before reading the text “she” sent.
We’re not socks, but I think we’ll make a great pair.
“Cute.” Her lips twitched, but she quickly pressed them together. She slid her phone away and pulled a thick planner from her purse, opened it, and stood ready with her pen. “How about we meet tonight? We need to read through the submitted questions and pick which to answer this week.”
“Can’t tonight.” I shook my head. After lacrosse and dinner, I had a practice with the band I gigged with. I couldn’t blow them off since it paid well and I needed the money.
“I can’t meet tomorrow. That’s my day to volunteer at the nursing home,” Lacey said. “What about Wednesday?”
“That won’t work either.” That was my one night a week to teach beginning guitar lessons at the guitar shop. “Honestly, Lacey, between lacrosse practice and other commitments, I don’t have much free time.”
“Okaaay. How about the beginning of lunch period tomorrow? We can meet in the library.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I should warn you, if your answer isn’t ‘yes’ then I’m going to run over your four-hundred dollar replacement guitar and actually enjoy it this time.”
“Whoa, yes. Definitely a yes. The library at lunch tomorrow. I’ll be there.” I cracked a smile. “No guitars need to be sacrificed in the making of this week’s advice column.”
8
NOT a Card Carrying Member of the Grady Burnett Fan Club
Lacey
“Gosh, anyone else smell that?” Tracey turned her attention from the toaster and her pumpernickel bagel to me as I entered the kitchen. She took two exaggerated sniffs as I walked past her to get the milk from the fridge. “Smells like an overdose of school spirit.”
“The debate team is taking on Mesquite today.” I was wearing my pep club T-shirt, white jeans, white Chuck Taylors and had pulled my long hair into a ponytail with blue and silver ribbons. “Want to come help support them?”
“About as much as I want to stick my hand in the toaster,” Tracey said, giving my clothes one more raking over before turning to butter her bagel.
“Masochist.”
“Pollyanna.”
“Negative Nancy.”
“Cheerleader.”
“Girls, please,” Mom said. She sat at the table, drinking coffee while she flipped through the latest issue of The Artist’s Palette. “Is it too much to ask for you to get along just one day?”
“This is us getting along,” Tracey said, sliding into her seat at the table with her bagel and iced coffee. “Did you see the article on the Scottish artist? His use of color is stunning.”
“Not yet.” Mom flipped through the magazine until she found it. “Oh, my. You’re right, Tracey. The way he pushes one color through the middle of another. I’d love to get a look at his paintings.”
“Right? I’d love to figure out how he did that.”
“Let me see,” Dad said, moving from the end of the table to lean over Mom’s shoulder to look.
The three of them proceeded to have a ten minute discussion about negative space, movement, layering colors and the “high
er truths” of the painting while I sat outside their circle, wishing I had the secret decoder ring that would let me into their club.
I know they didn’t exclude me intentionally. Not at all. They were just three like-minded artistic souls who connected over art in a way I’d never be able to. It was a lonely space sometimes, stuck on the outside of the people I loved most. My packed schedule helped ease that lonely feeling a little bit. A very little bit.
“Lace, did you want to take a look?” Mom asked, trying to include me.
“Yeah, sure.” She handed the magazine over and I did like the fresh bright colors, but everything else was lost on me.
“Oh, hey, can I borrow the gas card?” Tracey asked, sliding the question in smoothly as if hoping Dad wouldn’t notice. “My car’s on empty.”
“I’m afraid not, kiddo.” Dad stopped spooning his oatmeal to give Tracey “the look.” The look preceded his responsibility lecture that lasted exactly six minutes. Six. Long. Minutes. “We just had this same conversation last week.”
It didn’t matter how many times Dad delivered his lecture, I doubted it was going to change my sister. It wasn’t that Tracey was irresponsible so much as she lived in the moment and forgot everything else.
“It’s not like I did it on purpose. I forgot.” Tracey raised her chin, ready to go another round with Dad.
“It’s a safety issue, Trace.” Dad sighed. “Maybe you can’t handle the responsibility of the car. I’m thinking riding the bus for a few weeks might be a good wake-up call.”
“That’s not fair,” she said, tearing off a piece of her bagel and popping it in her mouth to chew. Probably trying to keep herself from arguing her way onto the bus. Good call since the bus was long, bouncy, and filled with noisy freshman.
“You can ride with me.” I filled my bowl with granola and drenched it in milk.
“I’ve got my art lesson in town right after school.” She eyed Dad, looking to see if he’d soften his stance, but he’d dug back in to his oatmeal.
The Good Girl & the Bad Boy: A Sweet YA Romance (Jackson High Series Book 2) Page 4
