I slap my palm against forehead and inwardly cringe. Subwayboy lives directly across the hall.
Why me?
SEVEN
Sara
As it turns out, I did not lock myself in my apartment forever because Dad wouldn’t allow it, which is rude, considering my list of problems is currently out of control.
When he asked me why I felt the need to hide inside all weekend, I couldn’t tell him the truth. I mean, ME? Tellingmy dadabout the kiss bet and Subwayboy? I’d rather give up hot pot for an entire year than hear what he’d have to say about that. Some things aren’t meant for Dad ears.
Anyway, at that point, I made chamomile tea, put on a cozy sweater, and then vented the entire story to my blog, which I found highly cathartic.
Nobody aside from Patrick and Vicky knows about my blog, which is fine. I don’t write for views or anything. It’s more of an outlet. A way for me to express my feelings—and I havea tonof feelings.
If I’m honest, I think I’m a decent writer. My words have a certain flair, and the more I write, the better I get. That’s what Vicky says, anyway, because she stopped by with food from Kiki’s Chicken Kitchen after she read my latest post.
“You have to leave the house eventually, Sara,” she told me before she left. “It might even be good for you to run into Subwayboy.”
Good for me?In what universe would that be good for me? I don’t even know what I’d say to him.
No, it’s best to remain cowardly and avoid him until I come up with a better solution.
Now it’s Monday, and I’m walking into calculus class when I catch several students removing a paper from their folders. My stomach drops. The homework! I forgot to do it over the weekend. This is not a great look for me, especially after my conversation with Mr. Day on Friday. I’ve got to try harder.
The bell hasn’t rung yet. Maybe I can salvage this.
I slink back to Patrick’s desk, hoping I go unnoticed by Mr. Day. “Hey, did you do the homework?”
Patrick looks up, his features displaying cunning indifference. “Are you saying you were home all weekend and didn’t even do the assignment?”
“I was, uh—busy!” I grab his worksheet. “Let me copy just this once.”
He tugs his paper from my hands. “That’s gonna be fifty bucks. Because you still owe me, remember?”
This stupid kiss bet is ruining my life.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Are you kidding me?”
He only raises his brows. “Wanna make it seventy-five?”
I slap my fifty on his desk, defeated. Because what choice do I have? This is my own fault, and I can’t let my calculus grade get any lower.
“It’s all I have,” I say.
Patrick pockets the bill then lets me have his worksheet. “I should really start my own business, don’t you think?”
I’m already back at my desk, furiously scribbling answers as fast as my hand will allow.
“Please,” I intone, not bothering to glance back at him. “Shut up.”
“Hmm.” The sound is overexaggerated as he drags his chair beside my desk. “Who can I bet you to kiss next?”
I jab his side with my elbow. “Will you quit talking about that? Can’t you see it’s a sensitive topic?”
Patrick’s teasing isn’t anything new. In fact, it’s his preferred method of communication within our best-friend dynamic. That’s just who he is, and I don’t mind—because I serve it right back. I’ve got my own comeback arsenal. And besides, we’re never cruel to each other. We keep it playful.
My hand cramps but I don’t let it stop me. I can do this. Only a few seconds left until class starts. Mr. Day will never know I blanked on the assignment.
