“Austin tells me that you tried out for football to fuck with my head. How did that go for you?”
I knew he suspected the reason I had tried out, but suspecting and hearing the truth were two totally different animals. “I’m breaking barriers. How about you? Oh, wait. I got it. You’re reading my mom’s book to learn how to have sex. I guess I won’t be jumping your bones after all. I like a guy who’s experienced.” My mom could be quite graphic in her sex scenes.
A handful of students who were in their seats got whiplash trying to watch the exchange between Train and me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell all of them to mind their own business, hide in a dark hole, or brag that my mom was aNew York Timesbest-selling author.
Reagan, however, giggled. “She’s right. You could learn a few things. It’s her mom’s best work to date.”
I loved Reagan.
Train shot daggers at her. She rebutted with more giggles.
“Hannah Montana, or whoever you are, stop making a spectacle of yourself.” His raspy drawl hardened. “It’s not pretty.”
I was conflicted. His harsh tone set off butterflies in my stomach, but at the same time, a pain stabbed my heart. I told myself he wasn’t trying to hurt me, but Elvira had said something similar last night. Nevertheless, I thought of unicorns and rainbows to stave off the urge to burst into tears. I wasn’t a crybaby. I could take anything thrown my way, or so I thought.His words hurt because you like him.
The bell chimed, breaking up our spat. Elvira breezed in and waved as she slid into her seat. More students spilled into the classroom, followed by Mr. Salvatore. I pulled out a notebook and opened it to a blank page.
Mr. Salvatore held up his hands. “Quiet down. I want to remind you that a preliminary report on your student project is due next Friday.”
I huffed. Train and I hadn’t even discussed what type of app we would create.
“Today, I want you to get with your partner and work on your projects. While you’re doing that, I’m going to list what I want to see in your report.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.I had to collaborate with a boy who wanted nothing to do with me.
Chairs shuffled around, creating a buzz amid the voices. I didn’t have to go far, although I was thinking of an excuse to go to the nurse’s office. But then we wouldn’t get anything done, and I could fail the class.
I slid my chair closer to him. That knot in my stomach was tighter than before. “We don’t have to like each other to work together,” I said. “You want a good grade. Right?” He had to want to pass the class. His dad had mentioned to my mom that his son was headed to USC on a football scholarship. “Let’s brainstorm. You write down some ideas, and I will too.” That way, I didn’t have to hear his sexy drawl.
He flipped his notebook open to a blank page and began writing.
I noodled on the question. What kind of app could we create that would help a college student or business owner? I thought of my mom and what her author business could use as an app. She had a website, which was a landing point for any of her fans that wanted info on her and her books.
Train waved his hand in front of my face. “Hey.”
I blinked.
The asshat smirked. “You want to throw yourself at me? That’s why you’re staring at me?”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Get off your high horse. Besides, it will be a cold day in hell unless you learn how to treat a lady.”
“Ladies don’t play football,” he said.
“Train.” My voice hardened to ice. “It’s clear we’ve got something going on between us. What? I’m not sure. And right now, I don’t care. We have a project to do, and I would like to pass this class. Don’t you have a scholarship to worry about?”
He narrowed his yummy sea-green eyes. “Fine.”
I slumped my shoulders. For rest of the class, we jotted down the notes that Mr. Salvatore had written on the whiteboard, and brainstormed ideas. Train came up with an app for oceanographers. I suggested an author app for my mom that would complement her website. He scrunched his nose at that. Then he suggested an app that could benefit his dad’s contracting business—in particular, an app to help consumers troubleshoot a problem with their air conditioning.
“Aw, how sweet,” I said. “You’re thinking about me.”
He brushed me off by checking his phone.
With a couple of minutes left until the end of class, I dipped into my bag for one of my acrylic markers, flipped to a clean page in my notebook, and started drawing. The act helped me to think.
Train stabbed a finger at my notebook. “What is that?”
I didn’t know if I wanted to tell him. But his tone was nice and not condescending. “It’s my signature. I use it on my artwork.” He didn’t need to know that all taggers had a signature on their graffiti, and my signature was the word “Spunk,” minus the u. I’d merged the letters S, P, N, and K into a cool design. Just looking at my design gave me the urge to find a large blank mural. It had been months since I’d tagged anything, and as frustrated as I was, I needed an outlet. The notebook wouldn’t be enough.
