Page 17 of It's in the Contract
“I’m taking my name out of the running,” I say again, a little louder. “Suzy, I know you meant well, but I don’t have it in me right now. I don’t want to fight Brielle. I just want to move on.”
“Exactly. You want to move on,” Suzy says, gesturing with her chopsticks. They’re black with a red flower pattern. On screen, Brian and Cassidy sign off, and the lunchroom chatter resumes. “This is how you do it.”
Nicole, Chelsea, and the other girls at our table pick up their conversation from before, something about how Tom Sheppard mooned a car at a bonfire over the weekend. Kayla stares at them, clearly peeved that her story about sneaking a taste of wine at a Sicilian vineyard has been overshadowed.
Dana pockets her phone. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Suzy. Moping is not a good look for you, Cal.”
“I’m not moping!”
I’m totally moping. I pick at the crust on my sandwich. Could I run? Would it help me get over Noah?
I imagine myself at the dance, bedecked in a gorgeous dress, standing in front of the crowd. Cassidy places the crown on my head. Mom smiles at me from the audience. Brielle looks on with envy. Noah takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor . . .
Ugh, but the work. I’d have to campaign—make posters, hand out badges, use my social media power to ask for votes, and go up against Brielle publicly. People would be able toseeexactly how far behind I was. People would look at my numbers and compare them to Brielle’s. My stomach turns just thinking about it. “I just . . . I don’t feel up to it right now,” I say, dejected. “I know you meant well, Suze. Thanks for trying to help me feel better.”
Disappointment crosses Suzy’s face. I know she really is trying to help me feel better, but I also know that a part of her just hates Brielle and wants to see her lose. If we both run, there’s more of a chance that the winner won’t be the jerkwad who’s made our lives miserable, or so Suzy likely thinks. Brielle has mercilessly teased Suzy since fifth grade about everything—Suzy’s eyes, her black hair (that is perfectly straight now but was a tangled mess until Suzy learned to use a straightener), the adorable bento box lunches her mom has always packed for her. Anything that was different about Suzy, Brielle attacked.
I look down and realize that I’ve crumpled my napkin into a tiny wad.
I glance up at Brielle and Noah one more time, and Brielle catches my eye. Her hair is curled today into gorgeous waves, and she’s wearing a hot pink tank top and gold hoop earrings. She winks.
I hold her stare for a moment before looking away.She doesn’t deserve to win.
Six
School’s barely started and I’m already failing! I’m going to be kicked off the cheer team for sure.
Text from Noelle Meyer to Saanvi Kumar.
I twiddlemy pencil between my thumb and forefinger, watching Zeke frown over the chemistry problem. He has a little crease between his thick, dark brows, and his lips are turned slightly down.
“I told you chemistry is evil,” I say.
“Hush,” he says. “We’ll get it.”
We’re in the library again, in the same out-of-the-way corner. The delightful smell of books permeates the air, and textbooks and papers are spread across the table. One book is open to the periodic table and another shows a list of organic chemistry equations that we’re supposed to be balancing.
“I’ve almost got it,” Zeke says. “Don’t worry.”
Today, Zeke wears a shirt that has two storm bloopers—or whatever those guys are called—that says, “Maybe those were the droids we were looking for.”
The library is dead quiet. It’s a Friday afternoon, and no one is here. They’ve all gone home to start the weekend. Which is exactly why I asked Zeke to meet up this day.
I pull out my phone to check the stats of my latest Instagram story when Zeke says, “Got it!”
“Great.” I set my phone face down on the table. “Can you explain it to me like I’m a drunk toddler?”
His smile quirks. “Hmm?”
“Because then you’ll dumb it down enough so I can actually understand it.”
“Callie.” Zeke leans forward and clasps his hands together over the textbook. “You’re much smarter than you give yourself credit for. Just because organic chemistry doesn’t come naturally to you doesn’t mean you’re not smart.”
I try to smile, but Zeke’s kind words make me uncomfortable. People call me many things—beautiful, stylish, popular—but “smart” isn’t a compliment I get often, even from my parents. Of course they want me to do well in school, but it seems like more of an expectation than something to be praised. Mom is quicker to notice when I wear an outfit she approves of, when I get a great workout in, or when my nutrition is spot on.
“How about you explain it to me like I’m a slightly inebriated toddler?” I ask.
Zeke laughs. He explains the problem to me, not in ways that a drunk toddler could understand, but in a way thatIcan understand.
