an unreadable expression that made my stomach tighten. “Everyone thinks you’re an evil bitch, but I’ve seen otherwise.”
Unease wormed through my gut, up my spine and into my muscles. I just hoped he didn’t see that, too. “So?”
“Why do you act that way?”
“What are you getting at?” I took a step back, raising my defenses by lining my voice with a healthy dose of acid. “Are you setting me up for some kind of intervention? Because I don’t need one.”
He didn’t fall for it. He continued to lean against the door, calm and collected and absolutely pissing me off even more in the process. “All I’m saying is that maybe you wouldn’t have to be so mean if you actually got to know people instead of writing them off as beneath you.”
“I don’t need this from the head of the popular crowd. You have no idea what it’s like for the rest of us.”
“I’m trying to lead by example, though, to keep my guys from being complete assholes, but let’s face it, I’m not their mother.” He pushed off the door and encroached on my space. “But if you’re so determined to write me off as one of them—”
“I’m not!” My throat tightened as soon as I said the words. Damn it! “I meant, I’m not sure if you are one of them or not. For all I know, you switching places with the real person who drew my name is all part of an elaborate prank.”
His eyes widened. “How—”
“I found the slip of paper with Emily’s name on it the day we drew partners.”
He stared at the ground, revealing nothing.
“And I don’t care why you chose to help out some dipshit who didn’t have the balls to work with me—”
“I did it because none of the other guys wanted to be paired up with you,” he interrupted, his voice tight and quiet.
My eyes stung, and a lump formed in my throat the size of Mt. Rainier. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d held on to the foolish idea that he’d switched places with someone else because he wanted to work with me, because for some insane reason, he actually liked me.
I stumbled back a few more steps. “I don’t need your pity.”
He grabbed my arm to keep me from escaping. “It wasn’t pity. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I could help you get over yourself, then life would be better for all of us.”
“The only person who needs to get over himself is the conceited prick standing in front of me.” I aimed for the weakest point I could find on him—the large bruise on his arm—and rammed my fist into it. He let go immediately, and I found my voice again. “And I know the perfect way to help you get off that gilded throne you’re sitting on.”
I held up the picture I’d taken of him earlier as I backed away, searching for some spark of fear in him. Then I turned and ran back home.
Chapter 10
“While I appreciate the administration’s efforts to prevent any harm coming to students with the installation of metal detectors at all entrances, I’d hardly call the fountain pen that was confiscated from me this morning a weapon. Unless, of course, you truly believe the pen is mightier than the sword.”
The Eastline Spy
February, Junior Year
By the time I got home, my pain had morphed into anger that burned in my belly and raced through my mind. It throbbed through my veins and ate away at those warm, happy feelings I’d been silly enough to feel earlier.
Pity, huh? I’d show him the meaning of pity.
I went straight to my room and paced in front of my desk, plotting my revenge. I could post the pic I got of him all over the web, on the front page of my blog, but knowing Brett, it would only backfire on me. Sure, he might get some ribbing from the guys, but all the girls would have the same reaction I did—“Aw!”
Damn, damn, damn, damn! No matter what I came up with, it couldn’t hurt him. Spread a rumor that he was using performance-enhancing drugs? All he’d have to do was pee in a cup to clear his name. Photoshop him
Unease wormed through my gut, up my spine and into my muscles. I just hoped he didn’t see that, too. “So?”
“Why do you act that way?”
“What are you getting at?” I took a step back, raising my defenses by lining my voice with a healthy dose of acid. “Are you setting me up for some kind of intervention? Because I don’t need one.”
He didn’t fall for it. He continued to lean against the door, calm and collected and absolutely pissing me off even more in the process. “All I’m saying is that maybe you wouldn’t have to be so mean if you actually got to know people instead of writing them off as beneath you.”
“I don’t need this from the head of the popular crowd. You have no idea what it’s like for the rest of us.”
“I’m trying to lead by example, though, to keep my guys from being complete assholes, but let’s face it, I’m not their mother.” He pushed off the door and encroached on my space. “But if you’re so determined to write me off as one of them—”
“I’m not!” My throat tightened as soon as I said the words. Damn it! “I meant, I’m not sure if you are one of them or not. For all I know, you switching places with the real person who drew my name is all part of an elaborate prank.”
His eyes widened. “How—”
“I found the slip of paper with Emily’s name on it the day we drew partners.”
He stared at the ground, revealing nothing.
“And I don’t care why you chose to help out some dipshit who didn’t have the balls to work with me—”
“I did it because none of the other guys wanted to be paired up with you,” he interrupted, his voice tight and quiet.
My eyes stung, and a lump formed in my throat the size of Mt. Rainier. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d held on to the foolish idea that he’d switched places with someone else because he wanted to work with me, because for some insane reason, he actually liked me.
I stumbled back a few more steps. “I don’t need your pity.”
He grabbed my arm to keep me from escaping. “It wasn’t pity. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I could help you get over yourself, then life would be better for all of us.”
“The only person who needs to get over himself is the conceited prick standing in front of me.” I aimed for the weakest point I could find on him—the large bruise on his arm—and rammed my fist into it. He let go immediately, and I found my voice again. “And I know the perfect way to help you get off that gilded throne you’re sitting on.”
I held up the picture I’d taken of him earlier as I backed away, searching for some spark of fear in him. Then I turned and ran back home.
Chapter 10
“While I appreciate the administration’s efforts to prevent any harm coming to students with the installation of metal detectors at all entrances, I’d hardly call the fountain pen that was confiscated from me this morning a weapon. Unless, of course, you truly believe the pen is mightier than the sword.”
The Eastline Spy
February, Junior Year
By the time I got home, my pain had morphed into anger that burned in my belly and raced through my mind. It throbbed through my veins and ate away at those warm, happy feelings I’d been silly enough to feel earlier.
Pity, huh? I’d show him the meaning of pity.
I went straight to my room and paced in front of my desk, plotting my revenge. I could post the pic I got of him all over the web, on the front page of my blog, but knowing Brett, it would only backfire on me. Sure, he might get some ribbing from the guys, but all the girls would have the same reaction I did—“Aw!”
Damn, damn, damn, damn! No matter what I came up with, it couldn’t hurt him. Spread a rumor that he was using performance-enhancing drugs? All he’d have to do was pee in a cup to clear his name. Photoshop him
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