Confessions of a Queen B* (16 page)

He leaned over, giving my rebellious hormones an unwelcome surge when the heat of his skin radiated onto mine. “That you’re actually capable of being nice and braiding ribbons into little girls’ hair instead of being the ball-busting bitch you want everyone to see you as.”

I clenched my hands into fists to keep them from shaking and remembered I still had the picture of him playing horsey with his sisters. “Are you asking for a demonstration of the latter?”

He shook his head, settling into his seat again. “Nope. I’ve already seen enough through your blog.”

“I suppose you’re getting a rise out of tormenting me, aren’t you?”

His grin only confirmed it, even though he said nothing.

I scanned the list, looking for distraction in any place I could find it. “Here’s one for you—breaking up with a girlfriend.”

“Not an issue.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot, Summer’s not your girlfriend, even though she tells everyone in the school she is.”

That wiped the grin off his face. “She does?”

“How clueless are you? She even sent me threats through my sister to keep my hands off of you.”

His brows bunched together, accentuating the downward turn of his mouth. “Perhaps I need to have a little talk with her.”

“Go right ahead. Meanwhile, I’m giving you points for the breakup since in some respects, you are having to end this fictitious relationship Summer’s created.” I jotted down the number, daring to give voice to the question that had been lingering in my mind since I’d first acknowledged my attraction to him. “So, what is the story between you two?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“She’s a deceptive, superficial, manipulative, back-stabbing bitch.”

He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“I’ll share if you will.”

“I’m game.” He cracked his knuckles. “I know Summer wants to be more than friends, but I’m not into her.”

“What are you into?”

His eyes flickered over me, his grin widening. “That’s not part of our deal.”

My cheeks burned, and I stayed focused on my screen. “Fine. But then tell me this—if you know she’s into you even though you’re not, why do you hang out with her all the time?”

He tapped his pen on the table, his lips pursed. “Maybe because I know her better than you, and I know she could really use a friend. She’s not as perfect as she pretends to be. It’s all an act to protect her from what’s really going on.”

“Meaning?”

He stilled. “How well do you know Summer?”

“Apparently not well enough, since she was the one person who betrayed me.”

“Aha. I knew there was a history between you two.”

Flashbacks of that day raced through my mind, each one accompanied by a fresh wave of nausea. Summer standing on a chair in the center of the lunchroom, my stolen diary in her hand. Her voice, as loud as it was on the football field, reading each embarrassing line I’d written. The laughter that followed after each secret confession of my soul. The pointed fingers, snickers, and names that tormented me for the months that followed. The dark nights where I’d cry myself to sleep and pray for some serious illness so I wouldn’t have to go back to school the next morning.

“Just don’t share any secrets with her unless you want them broadcasted to the entire school,” I said, my voice hoarse.

One brow raised, but he said nothing.

I kept going down the list, acutely aware of the silence that bordered on pity. “Hey, at least neither one of us has been suspended from school or had a parent recently incarcerated.”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” Then he grew quiet again, his mouse arrow hovering over the line that listed the value for “increased arguments between/with parents.”

His unease was infectious, worming through my stomach and twitching into my legs. But since he felt like he had every right to psychoanalyze me, I figured I could return the favor. “So, your dad’s really pushing you hard for that football scholarship, huh?”

He pushed back from the table and stood, turning his back to me.

Now he knew what it felt like when someone pointed out his issues.

“I suppose you might understand,” he started, then clamped up. He reached into his bag and pulled out a football.

Geez, did he lose part of his super jock mojo if he was more than ten feet away from one of those things?

I could have been completely snarky and told him to stay the hell out my problems if he didn’t want me returning the favor, but I couldn’t make my tongue form those words. Because perhaps I did understand. And because perhaps learning more about the real Brett intrigued me. “What?”

He squeezed the ball in his hands, his fingers splayed between the laces. “My dad played football. He even got to play in the NFL for a couple of years until he blew his knee out. And since I’m his only son, he’s been pushing football on me as long as I can remember.”

Now it was my turn to lean my cheek against my hand and study the person in the hot seat. “Do you even like playing football?”

“Are you kidding? I love it.” He pretended to pass the ball, the lean muscles of his body moving with the same fluid grace as they had on Friday night. “I love the intensity, the strategy, the physicality, the camaraderie of the team.”

“Do you really mean that, or are you just trying to incorporate your SAT flash cards into a sentence?”

He slapped the football, a single note of laughter breaking free. “Maybe both?”

“I thought as much.”

“But in all honesty, I do enjoy playing. What I don’t like is the fact my dad keeps trying to make it the only thing in my life. I mean, yeah, it would be great if I could play college ball and get a free ride because of it, but my mom is also right in that I need to make sure I have a back-up plan.”

“And what would you do if you didn’t have football?”

He stared the ball for several long seconds as through I was asking him to kill an old friend. “I have a few ideas, but nothing definite.”

“Meaning?” He was hiding something from me, something he didn’t want me to know about. And the way he kept dancing around on his feet told me he was struggling with whether to reveal his secret to me.

“Meaning I’ll explore them once I get closer to Signing Day. If I get any offers, then I’ll look at their programs and see which one feels like the best fit and make my decision then.”

“The football programs or the academic programs?”

“Both.” He finally looked over to me. “What about you? What do you want to do with your life?”

“I’m seventeen, Brett. I have no friggin’ clue what I want to do with my life.”

“Sure you do.” He set the ball back on the table and slumped back in his seat. “I wouldn’t expect less from you.”

“I’m just looking forward to graduating and getting the hell out of Eastline.”

“And then what?”

How had he managed to turn the tables on me again? It was one thing to have these honest—dare I say, intimate—conversations with Morgan or Richard, but how did I know I could trust Brett with my innermost desires? “Going to college and finding the answer to world peace.”

“That sounds like something your mother would say.” He leaned on the table, his body turned toward mine. “What do you want to do when you get out of college?”

I fought the urge to jump up from the table in an urgent need to refill my glass. Or better yet, help myself to some of my mom’s chardonnay. “I’ve tossed around the idea of going to law school.”

“And then what?”

“You said it yourself—I’m good at ball-busting. Maybe become a prosecutor.”

He nodded. “I can definitely see you doing something like that, especially after reading your blog. You like exposing wrongs.”

Once he turned back to the assignment, the muscles in my body finally started to unkink themselves. What was it about him that kept setting me on edge? Kept making me struggle to maintain my boundaries and not let him get closer?

Even though I secretly longed to let him closer?

But I just couldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

We both got points for being seniors. And Brett only raised a brow when he saw me mark the line about having the absence of a parent from home. He’d probably guessed that my family was completely dysfunctional.

In the end, we tallied up points. Brett’s were higher than mine. I pointed to his total. “I can see you’re on your way to the ICU at this rate.”

“Yeah,” he said glumly. “Time to find ways to reduce my stress.”

I looked at the clock. “Football practice should be starting soon.”

“True.” He closed his laptop, but didn’t leave the table. “You want to know something?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“It kind of helps having someone to talk to who isn’t, you know, caught up in the same little world.”

“You mean the highly superficial in-crowd?”

“Or the team. Or—well, yeah.” He slid his hands into his pockets and stretched his legs out under the table. “You’re kind of unreasonably harsh at times, but sometimes it’s needed, and you do have a different perspective on things.”

“Like the fact I’m grounded in reality?”

He shrugged. “Or just the fact you’re willing to listen. It’s like you’re one of the few people I can really be myself around.”

And once again, I felt that terrifying warmth in my chest that signaled I might actually care about him. Only this time, it flooded into my arms and made me want to wrap them around him in a comforting hug.

I couldn’t afford to be soft and sweet and huggy around him, not if I wanted to maintain my status on the pecking order at school.

He straightened up before I gave into temptation. He put his stuff back into his bag. “I suppose I should get going before school lets out and someone sees my car in your driveway.”

“I could always just say you were here looking for Taylor.”

That got another of those one-note chuckles from him. “I see you’ve already thought this through.”

“Pretty much.”

“So you want to meet back here on Wednesday to finish up the assignment?”

Could I handle another afternoon alone with Brett?

Was there a better alternative?

I didn’t see any. “Sure.”

“All right, then.” He got up and moved to the door, stopping in front of my mom’s shrine again. “You know, you look a bit like your mom.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult?”

“Just stating a fact.”

Just before he left, I blurted out his name, stopping him. My mouth made a few choked sounds before I finally confessed what had been on my mind since yesterday. “Thanks, you know, for being willing to work with me when whoever drew my name chickened out.”

He met my gaze, and something new sparked between us. Yes, we’ve had moments of anger and flirtation and sexual tension and humor. But this was different, more intense. It was almost like we were connected and were baring parts of our souls, as ridiculous as it sounds.

“It wasn’t out of pity,” he said softly, his voice with a raw edge I’d never heard before.

“Yeah, I know.”

And for once, I truly believed him.

Chapter 13

“Dear Justin Wallace, if you’re going to cheat on your girlfriend with a girl from another school, don’t go to the local Fro-Yo shop and share spoons (and spit) with her. People will notice the lip-locking and take pictures.”

The Eastline Spy

February, Freshman Year

The next morning’s handoff was made even sweeter by a large vanilla hazelnut nonfat latte…and a smile from Brett. The tension from the previous morning had vanished, and thankfully, he respected my wish to keep our public interactions at a minimum.

That, of course, didn’t extend to health class. He took the seat to my right, just as he had last week, and arched a brow at me, daring me to tell him to get lost.

I didn’t.

In truth, he did make the class more bearable.

That was the only reason I permitted him to stay.

The bell rang, and Mr. DePaul stood, double clicking on another PowerPoint presentation. “I can see by the flood of emails in my inbox that most of you have completed your stress inventories, and we have a lot of potentially sick teens in this class. So, now we’re going to start a discussion on stress reduction. Today’s topic: Physical Ways to Reduce Stress.”

“Sex,” Brett whispered under his breath.

I rolled my eyes. Just when I was beginning to think highly of him, he did something immature and testosterone-injected like that. “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

DePaul was droning on about the beneficial aftereffects of exercise such as reduced cortisol levels, increased mental acuity, blah blah blah.

Brett nodded to the slide. “Sex is physical exercise.”

“So is running,” I countered, ignoring the flush that rose into my cheeks.