Six Months Later by Natalie D. Richards

but Mr. Morris still talks like a grown-up on the Charlie Brown specials. Everything is “mwah-mwah-mwah” and I just can’t focus.
    Especially when I start thinking about the names on that list.
    Adam doesn’t need a study group. Blake either.
    For that matter, neither did Julien, but I could kind of buy it with her. She’s a Miller for God’s sake. If there’s a committee in Ridgeview, a Miller is on it. Going to pointless meetings is in their DNA. And Blake’s always been one to go the extra mile.
    But Adam? No way. His name was an inside joke on every dean’s list for the past three years. You can see the slow simmer of resentment in the teachers’ eyes when they call on him, wishing just once he’d give the wrong answer. But he never does. He never misses a beat and he never mouths off. Just delivers his response in that low, I-couldn’t-give-two-shits voice of his.
    I bite my lip, thinking about the way his dark hair tends to slide into his blue eyes. God, I have it so bad for this guy. I seriously have to get my crap together.
    The final bell rings. I dodge at least six people that want to discuss the weather, my hair, the truth about fair trade coffee—anything. I’ve been popular for like ten minutes, and I think I’m starting to hate it.
    I’m trying to get to the bathroom when Blake rounds the corner, sporting a wide grin as he reaches for me. “There you are, babe. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
    Yeah, probably because I am avoiding him.
    “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
    “No big deal,” he says, taking my books and then pulling me in.
    There’s no getting out of this kiss. I’ve avoided too many and stiff-lipped him through at least as many more.
    I tip up my head, letting him catch my lips. It’s soft and warm and so damn weird . I feel my shoulders tense, my hands like dead weights at the end of my arms.
    God, this is ridiculous! This is Blake. I would have given a kidney to kiss him in any one of the last several years. Memory loss or not, this shouldn’t be a chore.
    Blake pulls back, and my tension is reflected in his eyes. “What’s going on, Chloe? You seem…”
    “Distracted?” I guess, trying for a lopsided grin.
    He returns the smile, but he still looks wary, like he doesn’t quite believe that’s it.
    “I know.” I sigh. “I started in on college applications, and it’s just so much work.”
    His hand comes down on my shoulder, giving me a little squeeze. “I thought we already talked about this. Emory, Brown, Notre Dame, right?”
    “Huh?”
    “Just focus on your top three. Your scores alone should be enough to get you into most of the others,” he says, giving my shoulder another squeeze. “I don’t think Vassar’s going to happen, babe. You just don’t have the history of extracurricular work they look for.”
    I flinch. I’m not crazy about the squeezing or the babes or the fact that he’s delving out advice about my college prospects. Like this is all old news and we’ve decided together what’s best for me.
    “Did you need any help with the essays?” he asks. “You know I’d be happy to look at them.”
    My eye twitches. It really shouldn’t. This is a perfectly altruistic offer. Blake is a good student and an obviously sweet boyfriend, and I really need to back off the bitch factor by about a thousand percent.
    “Thanks, but I’m good,” I say, just barely keeping the bite out of my tone.
    “So dinner tonight?”
    “I can’t. Gotta look back over my Notre Dame stuff.”
    I even manage a regretful little sigh. Lies are getting easier than the truth.
    One of his hands kneads at my waist. “Well, I’m craving some quality time, so try to fit me in soon.”
    He reels me in, leaning down to kiss me again. It makes my stomach hurt to feel his lips against mine, but I force myself through it, hands fisted at my sides and spine like a steel rod. The kiss is just one more lie to add to my stack.
    If there is a hell, I am