Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(13)

I knew I hadn’t aced it––we took it the day after the ankle incident so I didn’t get much studying done because I was distracted and in pain––but I didn’t think I bombed it, either.

“How’d you do?” the girl next to me asks. Morgan’s piercing, the one on her eyebrow, glimmers under the floodlights. I wonder if it hurt. Why did she get it? Does she regret it? Does it have meaning to her? See what I mean about tangents?

Exhaling a deep, frustrated breath, I run a hand over my head. My bangs stand up so I shake them out. “Horrible. How ’bout you?”

She tugs on the ends of her short, pink hair. “B plus. I don’t know how, I barely studied. I hate Bertolucci. Such a misogynistic pig.”

I don’t care either way about Bernardo Bertolucci. What I do care about is my average. I can’t afford to do poorly in any class. My scholarship demands I maintain a B plus, and everything I’ve ever worked toward is at stake if I can’t do that.

Chewing on the tip of my thumb, I glance around and find Simon staring back at me. He sends me a coy smile. Which forces me to return one that lacks sincerity. God, I hope he doesn’t ask me how I did. That would be twice as mortifying.

“Last Tango In Paris. Classic,” he says with a leer.

Morgan turns away from him and mimes a gag, drawing a dry burst of laughter out of me. I’m definitely with her on this one. The movie is basically cheesy soft porn peddled as an art house think piece. And the profound moral of the story? Women are incapable of handling sex without an emotional attachment. They become hysterical, maniacal, and ultimately resort to murder.

See, I know my stuff. I just don’t do so well on tests unless I put in a lot of extra time.

“I rarely do this, but since quite a large number of you did poorly on this one I’m going to offer an elective make-up exam,” Levine, the professor, announces.

A bunch of murmured “Thank Gods” circulate the room. The tension in my shoulders eases a fraction.

“Come to study group and I’ll help you out,” Morgan says. I glance over and discover a flicker of apprehension on her round face. I don’t think she has many friends here. She only ever speaks to me in class.

“Where is that again?”

“Tomorrow night at the library. Study room B.”

“I’ll be there.”

A brief smile lights up her face and the butterfly tattoos on her neck flap their wings.





The following evening I’m sitting on the toilet in the communal bathroom, in the middle of gingerly rewrapping my ankle after soaking it in Epsom salts for half an hour, when my stepmom calls.

“Hey, sweets. How’s the ankle?”

“Getting better. I’ve been soaking it every day and it’s helping.” It’s marginally better. She doesn’t need to know that, though. She’s worried enough as is. “Are you taking arnica?”

“Not yet. I haven’t been able to get to the store.” I’ll have to rectify that tomorrow, ask Zoe to drive me when she has time.

“I still think you should get an X-ray.”

“Button? It’s me, Dad.”

As if anyone else on this planet calls me Button. He does that, steals my mom’s phone when she’s in the middle of a conversation. Yeah, she loves it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they find him bludgeoned to death by iPhone one of these days.

“Hi, Dad.”

“How are those California fruits and nuts treating you?”

“Awful. They say hello all the time. Like, for no reason. Even strangers. And smile. They even have the audacity to make eye contact. I’m a little freaked out.”

His deep chuckle comes through the phone and a sharp pang hits my heart. I miss them. One of the downfalls of being an only child is that you develop an unhealthy attachment to your parents.

“What happened with the car?”

“It cost me a couple hundred bucks to have it donated.”

“You live and learn, kiddo.”

“Please don’t say I told you so again.”

“Okay, okay. Here’s your mother. Love you. And I told you so.”

“Love you too.”

“Sweetheart?” my mother cuts in a moment later.

“I have to get going if I’m going to make it in time for study group.”

“At this hour??” she exclaims.

“It’s only seven thirty, Nance. Chill.” Though it will be late by the time I get out. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll take an Uber home.”

I won’t. Can’t afford it. But I can’t have her worrying about me walking around in the dead of night on crutches.

“I don’t know, Alice. This is making me increasingly uncomfortable. Maybe I should come out for a few days. Until you’re better.”

“Mom, stop. I’m fine. Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Despite seeing blood and guts on a nightly basis at one of the busiest hospitals in Newark, New Jersey, Nancy Bailey is a fretter when it comes to her only kid. She’s also repeatedly said that she didn’t fret a day in her life until she met me and fell in love.

“Call me tonight. I mean it. Call me or I won’t sleep.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “Love you, bye.”