“Good,” he responds.
I consider the conversation done and start to walk away, but evidently Kyle didn’t receive the memo that I’m not in a talkative mood—at least with him. “Bre, I need this help. What can I do to get you to write these papers?”
There’s the use of my nickname again—like he knows me, but he doesn’t. “I’m not writing your papers.”
“You’re smart.” He points to his temple as if trying to explain where my “smart” originates. “You’re getting out of Snowflake easy. Me? I’m not smart, but I can play football. I’m good at it. I understand it. If I don’t get my grades up, I’m going to be stuck in this dump town working in that mindless factory like my dad and his dad. I’m desperate.”
I can tell by the hurt in his eyes that he is, but writing his papers for him is wrong. Cheating is wrong. All of this is wrong. “I can help you. I can read over the papers you write. Give you some advice and pointers—”
“I’ll tell your parents you were here,” he cuts me off. “If you don’t write the papers for me, I’ll tell them you were drunk.”
I laugh even though I shouldn’t find his statement funny. “I am not drunk.”
He smiles and it baffles me. Maybe he’s not as bad as I think. “Yeah, you are. Come on. What do you want? A date to senior prom? Everyone knows Reagan talked one of her friends into taking you to junior prom. He told everyone she begged.”
My stomach lurches and my hand lands on my midsection. I didn’t know that and my forehead wrinkles as I try to figure out if it’s true.
“If you don’t want me to take you to prom, then tell me what guy you want as a date and I’ll make it happen. Then I’ll make sure no one but you, me and him knows. Hand to God, no one else will find out. Do you want to be on the homecoming court? I’ll convince my friends to vote for you. I saw you joined Bragger. Do you want everyone at school to follow you? Consider yourself followed. Name your price.”
I told Addison that for my senior year I wanted to be seen, but not like this. There’s a dip inside me and it’s like plunging into a ravine.
“Everyone’s talking about you,” he says. “That outfit you wore at orientation, how you were flirting with Thomas Turner today—”
“What?” I blurt. “I was not flirting.”
Blood drains from my face. Oh, God, was I flirting with him? I was flirting with a biker. I’m breaking so many rules and they are not the ones to destroy.
“Being here tonight,” he continues, “you’re trying to be someone different. I can help make that happen and not in the way that will make people laugh.”
Everyone’s talking about you... Make people laugh... Trying to be someone different... People are laughing at me and I wasn’t pretending to be anyone else, I was attempting to be on the outside who I feel like on the inside.
The colors and sights of the club merge. There’s too many people. Too much noise. A few feet away a trio of girls from school are staring at me—watching me and Kyle. One gestures toward me. The other two laugh.
Nausea knots my intestines. I didn’t mean to be the girl people laughed at. In fact, I craved the opposite. I wanted to be me for once, but to be me without the judgment and hate.
Wetness stings my eyes and I pivot away from Kyle. His fingers circle my wrist and he slides in front of me again. “Don’t be upset. I can make this better. For one year, don’t you want to be someone more than the weird smart girl?”
Sadness sinks past my defenses and creates an ache of pain, but then a flash of anger whips through me like a storm gale through trees. I tilt toward him as if he should be scared of me. “I am not that girl!”
“When did you stop? New clothes don’t change who you are, but I can help.”
He said it. Out loud. My fingers form into a fist. I should hit him. I should throw a punch into his face and hurt him exactly how he’s torturing me.
“Let me get you another drink.” His grip on my wrist lightens and his thumb slowly moves across my pulse point. His touch sickens me. “And we’ll talk.”
“Leave me alone.”
Kyle releases me, then sags like I crushed him and I find him confusing. He’s the one causing me to suffer. He’s the one causing the tears flooding the rim of my eyes.
“I’m not trying to make you cry.” He crams his fingers into his hair. “I’m saying this wrong. Doing this wrong. I swear, I’m not trying to make you cry.”
I’m terrified to peek across the room again—afraid the girls from school will be cackling like hyenas. I desperately tr
y to cling to the anger, but it slips through my fingertips.
I turn and there’s Addison. The elation that was on her face wanes as her eyes crazily take me in. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” My lungs burn and I want so badly to curl into a ball and cry, but I can’t. Not in public. Not with everyone gawking.