He turns to watch me peruse the shelves, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And I have a feeling you’re the one who will be disillusioned, not me. You and I don’t have the same ‘real world,’ princess. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
I drop my hand, momentarily abandoning my search. “That’s only because we’re in high school and you get to be Mr. Popularity. After high school is over—”
“After high school is over, I’ll be Mr. Whatever I Have to be Next,” he interrupts, looking almost sympathetic. “The world’s not gonna change, Zo. What, you think we’ll swap positions of power? After graduation, you’ll be on top just because you work harder? Because you deserve it more? Because you’re a better person? It doesn’t mean anything, babe. I mean, it does to you, it’s who you are, but that’s not the world. I’ll be on top long after high school has ended. Not because I’ll deserve it any more then than I do now, but because I’ll bring the right tool box. That’s it. It’s that simple.”
Given I like Carter, my stomach shouldn’t feel so unsettled, but I hate the possibility that he’s right. My mind and heart both reject his version of reality, stubbornly insisting it means something to be a good person. Someday, somehow… it will matter that I do the right thing and he does the wrong thing.
I don’t like making us competitors right now because I know he would win every time, but surely someday I would be the victor. He’s right—I work harder. I do the right thing. I deserve it more than he does.
He must be able to see he has poked a small hole in my dreams, because he reaches out to grab me and tugs me into his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m just being cynical,” he says, although I know he doesn’t mean it. Settling his arm around my shoulder to keep me close, he nods at the bookshelf. “Come on, pick out some books. Educate me.”
“Why?” I mutter, glancing up at him. “So you can have your rally girl read them to you while you’re practicing?”
“I’ll read them all by myself, I promise,” he says lightly, a small smile on his perfect lips. It’s a smile he intends to be reassuring, but knowing he’s only trying to placate me makes the gesture feel hollow.
Displeasure is leaking out of me now, and I can’t put a stopper in it. Frowning up at him, I tell him, “It’s not stupid to try. It’s not stupid to be nice to people and do the right thing instead of the wrong thing. The world would be a lousy place if nobody cared. You obviously don’t, but someone has to.”
“I was just messing with you, Zoey,” he assures me.
“But it was the truth,” I state, staring at him. “You weren’t messing with me, you told the truth and when I didn’t like it, you tried to backpedal like you always do, because it wasn’t worth it to you to stand your ground on this one. You’re not invested in whether I agree or disagree because it doesn’t affect you.”
“Yes, Zoey, I’m a selfish monster. I think only of myself, always. None of your opinions or worldviews matter to me. You’re just a trophy I can fuck.”
My stomach drops at the possibility of truth in those words and I take a step back.
Raking a hand through his hair, Carter says, “Jesus Christ. It was a joke, Zoey.”
“That’s a weird joke,” I tell him. “Trophy? That’s not a term I would’ve associated with myself. I’m not exactly a catch in this town. What makes me a trophy?”
This time, he knows better than to answer, but the gleam in his eye fuels my own suspicions and all of a sudden I know. It still doesn’t make sense, but I know the answer.
“Jake,” I say, softly. “He made me a trophy.”
“I was joking,” he says again, slowly. “I don’t view you as a trophy. I don’t even fucking value trophies—do you know how many of them I have?”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have a Zoey,” I say, shaking my head. “Not me. Not the stuck-up, church-going bookworm who didn’t give a damn about how impressive you are. Despite all your accomplishments and easy-pickings, I wasn’t on the menu for you, was I?”
Carter’s jaw locks. I see the tick, so I shouldn’t be surprised when he gets a little mean. “I don’t know, Zoey, if memory serves, I put you on the menu. I’ve had several servings at this point,” he reminds me.
That pisses me off. Plucking a book off the shelf, I shove a small paperback against his chest. “There’s your book. Buy it or don’t. I need to get back to the register.”
“Why are you doing this?” he demands, following me. “Why are you picking a fight with me over nothing?”