Wrong About the Guy by Claire LaZebnik Page A

finished and caught him using his phone. “No fair!” I said.
    â€œWhy not? You text all the time.”
    â€œYeah, but I’m not getting paid to be here.”
    â€œI’m not getting paid enough .”
    â€œReally? How much are you getting?”
    â€œThat’s between your mother and me.”
    â€œShe paid my driving instructor a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”
    â€œLet’s look at your work,” he said, sitting and pulling the laptop toward him.
    â€œYou’re not getting anywhere near that much, are you?”
    â€œI’m not letting you drag me into a conversation about this.”
    â€œAnything less than a hundred and you’re being robbed.”
    â€œJust shut up, will you, and let me read?”
    â€œOn the other hand, that driving instructor never once told me to shut up.”
    â€œHe or she must have been a saint. Or deaf.”
    I watched him reading through my answers, his grayish-greenish eyes darting swiftly across each line. Something buzzed. “You got another text.”
    He didn’t respond.
    â€œIt might be important.” I peeked at his phone. “Is Carson a girl or a boy?”
    â€œI’m trying to think of how that might be your business and I just can’t.”
    â€œYou kept asking me about Skyler! Exact same thing.”
    He shrugged and looked up. “You got all of the questions right.”
    â€œOf course I did. And I already know that Carson’s a girl. First of all, most Carsons are girls, and second of all, she wrote ‘Can’t wait,’ and no boy would ever writethat to another boy, even if they were both gay and in love.”
    â€œDo you ever stop talking?”
    â€œYou took my phone away,” I said. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you read? As riveting as that might be—”
    â€œReflect on your flaws,” he said. “Resolve to be a better person.”
    â€œIt’s not possible. I’m already perfect.”
    â€œAre you though?”
    â€œHow about Carson?” I said. “Is she a good person? Or a flawed one?” I was only teasing, but my curiosity was genuine. If George was in love, I wanted to know about it. I felt a little proprietary after all the time we’d spent together this summer, like I should get a chance to review and approve anyone he dated. Besides, talking about his personal life was a lot more interesting than studying for the SATs. “Do we like her?”
    â€œShe’s a goddess among women,” he said. “If I give you back your phone, will you stop talking long enough for me to actually read your essay?”
    â€œIf you give me back my phone, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the afternoon,” I said. “Maybe even the rest of the decade.”
    â€œYou get ten minutes with it.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and handed it to me, then bent over the screen again.
    I sent a couple of texts and checked my Instagram feed. Aaron had posted a selfie with Mia. She was tiny and adorable in his well-muscled arms.
    â€œOkay, done,” George said, looking up. “Why are you smiling?”
    I showed him the photo.
    â€œRight,” he said. “Let’s talk about your essay.” He swung the laptop around and hitched his chair closer to mine so we could both see the screen. “So you got the format right—everything’s there, from the introduction to the conclusion. And it’s a good length—you got a lot of words down on the page. You even made some decent points. It’s just the way you supported them that I’m not sure about. You’re a little glib.”
    â€œGlib?” I repeated.
    â€œSlick. Easy.”
    â€œI know what glib means. I’m just hurt you think of me that way.”
    â€œLook at this.” He pointed to a sentence. “You’re essentially making fun of the topic.”
    â€œJust trying