If I'm Being Honest(24)

Fortunately for my walking insomnia, there’s a Student Government coffee fund-raiser in the courtyard during lunch. Normally, I wouldn’t waste half the lunch period on badly brewed coffee. It’s a testament to my desperation that I’ve been waiting in line with Morgan and Elle for twenty minutes.

“Ugh,” Elle groans. “This line is endless.”

“I know,” I say. “But I’m not going to make it through the day without heavy caffeinating. Look at the bags under my eyes.”

She studies me. “You’re right,” she replies. “They’re horrendous.”

I’m not usually bothered by Elle’s unflinching commentary. I’m used to it. I enjoy her remarks and return them with equal frequency. I don’t know if it’s the worry or the exhaustion, but today they hurt a little.

I smile hollowly, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious. “You don’t have to wait with me if you don’t want,” I reply, keeping my tone judgment-free.

“In that case,” Elle says unhesitatingly, pulling out her phone, “I’m going to go find Jason.”

I say nothing.

Elle waits until her phone vibrates in her hand, and her mouth flickers in the hint of a grin. Her eyes flit up to mine. “Hey, but we’re still on for milkshakes tonight, right?” she asks. I nod. We’re planning to stuff ourselves with shakes and animal-style fries from In-N-Out. “Great. See you then.”

She eagerly darts out of the line to meet Jason. I feel certain they’re going to spend the remainder of lunch in an empty classroom. I sigh. “Between Andrew and this Jason-and-Elle thing,” I say to Morgan, “I’m beginning to feel like I should just give up on romance. Is it really worth the trouble?” I don’t mention the really glaring example of a wasted, unhealthy relationship in my life—my parents.

“Elle and Jason do not count as romance,” Morgan replies.

I laugh and walk up to the counter, where I proceed to order the greatest number of espresso shots they’ll put in one cup. Morgan deftly reaches in and hands the barista her card, ordering her own espresso and paying for both before I can pull out my wallet. It’s a generosity I no longer resist. My friends know I have nowhere near the spending money they do.

“But yes,” Morgan says while we wait with the crowd. “It is worth it. With the right person.” Her eyes get the happy, faraway look they do whenever Brad’s around. I feel a pang of envy.

The barista, whom I recognize as a senior in Student Government, holds up a cup behind the counter. “BB,” she calls out.

Brendan pushes past me to the front. I hadn’t noticed him in the crowd. “It’s Brendan,” he says gruffly to the barista.

“Sure, BB,” she chuckles. A couple other Student Government seniors laugh with her.

I feel an unexpected twist in my stomach and level the barista a glare. “You heard him,” I say, hardening my voice. “His name is Brendan.”

The barista blinks, thrown by my sternness. “Oh, um, yeah,” she fumbles, wilting. “Yeah, Cameron, you’re right.” She hands over my triple cappuccino, as if in a gesture of goodwill.

I can’t help it—I turn, hoping Brendan heard my correction. Instead, I’m faced only with a wall of under-caffeinated Beaumont students waiting for their orders. Finally, peering over their heads, I find Brendan’s retreating back halfway across the courtyard. I deflate.

“That was really nice of you, Cam,” Morgan says beside me.

“Huh?” I’m distracted watching Brendan.

“Helping Brendan,” she clarifies. “You were being nice.”

We leave the crowd. “Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, sipping eagerly on my coffee and ignoring the sting of its too-hot temperature on my lips.

“I know you’re nice. It’s just a side you don’t often show others.” Morgan gives me a wry look. “See you tonight,” she calls over her shoulder as the bell rings.

I walk to the computer lab, Morgan’s words unfurling into an idea in my head. I know how I can help Brendan and earn his forgiveness. He hates me for the nickname I gave him, but I have the social clout to undo it. If I can erase “BB” on campus, I’ll repair his reputation and make amends with Paige.

When I walk into Computer Science, Mr. West’s busy with a group in the back and everyone’s beginning to unpack and work on today’s project. It’s the perfect opportunity. Determined, I walk right up to Brendan’s desk. He’s on his computer, his half-finished iced coffee next to the keyboard. Written in sloppy Sharpie, BB faces outward incriminatingly.

“Brendan,” I venture, “could you help me with my homework? I got stuck on the last task.”

Without sparing me a look, he wordlessly follows me to my station. I repress a small surge of frustration that he’s not even acknowledging what I did for him at the coffee cart. Loading my program on the computer, he starts testing the scenarios.

“Did you get the email I sent you?” I ask, annoyed at his continued silence.

“Yeah.” His eyes remain firmly on the screen, and he continues clicking through my work.

“Was it helpful?” I prod.

He shrugs. “I didn’t open it. Your homework is perfect, by the way.” Finally, he looks up, glaring. “Which you already knew.”