Wrong About the Guy(25)

“If they ever really drive you crazy, feel free to come hang here.”

“I wish. The problem is they both want me around as much as possible—I’m like their buffer. Which is about as much fun as you’d guess.” He stopped and studied me. “Why is it so easy to talk to you? I don’t normally tell people private stuff like this.”

“I feel the same way,” I said. “Maybe it’s just that we have such similar situations. Not many people get it. And if I told anyone else something private about my parents, I’d be terrified of seeing it in the tabloids the next day. Let’s make a pact to just unload all this stuff on each other.”

“It’s a deal.” He held out his hand and we shook and then he leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. “I am very glad I came back to LA for this year,” he said softly.





thirteen


The school activity fair was that Tuesday. Ben and I manned a booth to get people to sign up for the Holiday-Giving Program. Riley and Skyler circulated around the crowded gym with flyers and pointed people in our direction.

Arianna came over and asked if she could help. Ben suggested she reach out to the juniors she knew and encourage them to come talk to us, and she obediently ran off.

Things were quiet at our post, so I was idly watching the crowd when I spotted Arianna targeting two girls from her class and walking them toward us. They were staring at me, and as they got nearer, I heard one of them say, “Luke Weston? Oh my God!”

They signed up to help at the Christmas party, and after they left, I said to Arianna, “Please don’t tell people Luke will come to the party. He might not and I’d rather people signed up because they actually want to be involved.”

“Oh, I’m not!” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry! Everyone’s just really excited about helping out.” And she went running off to collar some more people . . . who all stared at me as she whispered something to them.

And I was pretty sure I could guess what she was whispering.


Heather couldn’t join me for tutoring that Wednesday night. She had a drill team practice. I didn’t get drill team—it wasn’t cheerleading and it wasn’t dance and in all honesty, the videos I’d seen of her doing it were pretty lame—but she loved it and I’m guessing it appeased her mother’s thirst for extracurriculars to put on her college app.

Anyway, it was just me and George that night. As soon as we sat down in the kitchen, he asked me why I hadn’t emailed him any of the work I’d said I would.

“About that . . .” I said. “The dog ate my homework?”

“No dog,” he pointed out. “And it was all on the computer.”

“If I had a dog, I’m pretty sure it would have eaten my homework. Speaking of which, I’d really like to get a pug. Don’t you like pugs? They’re so cute with their old faces and sad eyes. What’s your favorite breed?”

“Nice try,” he said. “But since you didn’t do the work this week, you’ll do it right now, while I’m here.” He brought it up on my computer and then stood behind me.

“You’re looming over me,” I said, glancing up at him. “That can feel very threatening, you know.”

“Really? Good. Consider yourself threatened.” He pointed at the screen. “Get it done, Ellie. Oh, and I’m taking your phone.” He scooped it up and stuck it in his back pocket. “I can’t compete with it.”

“Damn right you can’t,” I said, but I let him keep it.

It took me about ten minutes to answer all the questions he’d assigned and another fifteen to write a five-paragraph essay on the subject “Does social media affect our interpersonal relationships for better or worse?” The writing section of the SATs was theoretically optional now, but the counselor at my school had said anyone who wanted to go to a decent college had to take it.

I looked up from the computer to tell George I’d finished and caught him using his phone. “No fair!” I said.

“Why not? You text all the time.”

“Yeah, but I’m not getting paid to be here.”

“I’m not getting paid enough.”

“Really? How much are you getting?”

“That’s between your mother and me.”

“She paid my driving instructor a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

“Let’s look at your work,” he said, sitting and pulling the laptop toward him.

“You’re not getting anywhere near that much, are you?”

“I’m not letting you drag me into a conversation about this.”

“Anything less than a hundred and you’re being robbed.”

“Just shut up, will you, and let me read?”

“On the other hand, that driving instructor never once told me to shut up.”

“He or she must have been a saint. Or deaf.”

I watched him reading through my answers, his grayish-greenish eyes darting swiftly across each line. Something buzzed. “You got another text.”

He didn’t respond.

“It might be important.” I peeked at his phone. “Is Carson a girl or a boy?”

“I’m trying to think of how that might be your business and I just can’t.”