Quinn returned to the front as the bell rang. ‘Start your research tonight, and be ready to debate your findings within your team tomorrow!’ he called over the shuffling as we all headed for lunch.
‘How can you be friends with that idiot?’ Melody asked as we pressed towards the exit.
I lifted a shoulder and smiled down at her, catching the edge of the door and holding it open. ‘He’s entertaining?’
She conceded with a tilt of her head. ‘If you’re amused by complete idiocy.’ She started to return my smile, but it vanished when her boyfriend dropped his arm over her shoulders the moment we entered the hall. He was usually waiting for her after class.
‘Hey, babe.’ He fixed me with a look. ‘Hey, emo freak. Get your dick pierced yet?’
‘Clark,’ Melody gasped as we entered the flow of students, most of us eager to escape campus for half an hour.
‘Why are you so fascinated by my dick, Richards?’ I asked.
He turned round and then glanced over my shoulder, where I knew Boyce was. ‘Fuck off, freak,’ he said, leading Melody down the east hall, towards the parking lot.
‘I think Richards needs a new repertoire.’ I watched the sway of Melody’s hips, her boyfriend’s arm round her neck like a collar.
‘Huh?’ Boyce arched a brow. ‘You know he’s buyin’ from Thompson now, right?’
I laughed. ‘Perfect. So he’s a hypocrite as well as a douche.’
‘Dude. Coulda told you that years ago.’ He knocked knuckles with a friend over the heads of a couple of girls as I watched Melody and Clark disappear through the far door. ‘Did I tell you he tried to pay me to f**k you up again?’
I pulled to a full stop and a freshman slammed into me, bounced off, and sprawled on his ass. Reaching down, I grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet, guessing he had every textbook he’d been assigned in that backpack. He weighed twice what he should.
‘What’d you tell him?’ I asked Boyce as the freshman stammered a thank-you and scurried away.
Boyce grinned, one brow arched. ‘Told him to go f**k himself, of course.’
LUCAS
Jacqueline didn’t text or call me, so I concluded that either (a) she hadn’t seen the number on her cup or (b) she saw it and wasn’t interested in talking to me.
Considering that she’d volunteered her name and asked mine, I didn’t think she was indifferent.
She emailed Landon, but her message was economics-related only. Or so it seemed on the face of it. She mentioned going out with friends Saturday. When I replied, I referred to that comment: I hope you enjoyed your night out. A night out I knew all about. She wouldn’t tell Landon any more about her Saturday night, of course … but I wanted her to. With every exchange, I dug myself a bigger hole, but I couldn’t stop digging.
Then I alluded to her breakup, and the fact that I’d never meant to be rude by acting as if I didn’t want to know the details. Between the written lines, I urged, Tell me, but I didn’t expect her to answer that unwritten directive – to reveal such an unprotected part of herself.
With one paragraph, she laid it all at my feet – the amount of time they’d been together. The fact that she’d followed him here to school, instead of auditioning for a prestigious music programme far away. The way she blamed herself, completely, for being stupid. For believing in him.
She thought she was stuck somewhere she wasn’t meant to be in consequence of that decision.
I wasn’t a believer in fate or higher powers, as much as I wanted to be. I had faith in taking responsibility, and clearly, so did this girl. But I couldn’t fault her for following someone she’d loved for three years – it pointed to a loyalty she wasn’t giving herself credit for. If she believed in responsibility, then the best thing for her to do would be to take control again. To own the decision she’d made, however she’d made it. To make the best of it.
So that’s what I told her.
Wednesday, she arrived in class early, and I made an impulsive decision – all I seemed to be capable of where Jacqueline Wallace was concerned. I slid into the seat next to her and said her name. She startled a little when she looked up, expecting the guy who usually sat there, probably. But she didn’t lean away from me.
‘I guess you didn’t notice the phone number on your coffee cup,’ I said.
‘I noticed.’ Her voice was soft for such a smart-ass retort, candid curiosity in her steady gaze.
I asked for her number in return, and she asked if I needed help in economics. I almost choked, strung out between a now-familiar guilt trip and amusement at the absurd corner I’d backed myself into. Do you need help in economics? I asked why she’d think that, wondering, for two heartbeats, if she knew and was screwing with me.
If so, I completely deserved it.
‘I guess it’s not my business,’ she said, miffed.
I needed to move the conversation away from this line of thought. I leaned closer and told her the honest truth – that my wanting her number had nothing to do with economics.
She picked up her phone and sent me a text: Hi.
Her classmate walked up, wanting his seat. (Benjamin Teague, according to the role sheet. I’d checked his campus address, schedule, grades and any possible disciplinary notes – there were none. He seemed harmless, his fondness for bro T-shirts aside, and he made her laugh – both a point in his favour and a reason I sort of wanted to clock him cold.)
I surrendered the seat, holding back a jackass-level grin. She hadn’t called me … but she had programmed my number into her phone.