Page 8 of Real Fake Husband

With a heavy sigh, I let her continue writing her little love note and directed my attention back to prepping for class.

Our class was basically divided into three groups.

Group one: the popular crowd (the rich and the beautiful).

Group two: the okay crowd (kinda cool and kinda pretty).

Group three: the uncool crowd (losers, full-on geeks, and creative cretins-slash-dopes).

I was in group three, the uncool crowd. But only because, at the beginning of the year, Mrs. R had sat me next to the “uncoolest” girl in the whole school—Gwendolyn. Nobody wanted to sit next to her in the first row, and I’d been late that day. All because I’d forgotten my sketchbook. Sure, I wasn’t the coolest girl, either—far from it—and I certainly wasn’t rich or beautiful enough to be in group one, but I hated having to sit next to this super nerd with glasses who always raised her hand like it was an Olympic sport. I wanted to at least belong to group two.

But over the next days and weeks, I discovered that deep down, Gwendolyn was…funny. Sure, she was mostly quiet, shy even (except when it came to writing anonymous love notes to boys), and an overachiever in the worst and best sense, but we shared a similar sense of humor.

Once she opened up to me, I had more fun with her than ever before, duringandafter class. Talk about a life lesson. Soon, I realized Gwendolyn was more my people than the popular and okay crowd, and I happily accepted my new position without any regret or remorse.

It was through Gwendolyn’s secret creative writing book club that I met Kaylin. She was part of the uncool crowd back then too, even though she went to a different school. She and I became besties once Gwendolyn moved to another state. Anyway, what all the cool and popular kids didn’t understand was that it was extremely beneficial having “nerds” as your besties and being a fully integrated part of them. When something was due, I was like, “Hurry!” I couldn’t even tell you how many times Gwendolyn had saved my ass when I’d forgotten to do my homework or needed, let’s say, “inspiration” during a test.

I was a bit of a messy kid. I would sometimes forget things.

But this time, Ihadbrought my red sketchbook—I was sure—wanting to transfer a couple of small sketches into larger drawings. As I dug through my backpack, trying to find the book, I heard a smartass voice.

“What? Can’t find your shit? Did Miss Goody-Goody forget to clean out her backpack?” Callum asked, taking the seat next to mine.

Why the hell did he have to sit there? Couldn’t he sit somewhere else? I scanned the room, hoping for another desk to move to, only to find every seat filled. Great. Perfect. Exactly what I wanted to deal with today.

“Mind your business, Callum,” I snapped.

“You got it, Nosy Josie.”

Oh, my God, Ihatedthat name with a fiery passion. He knew it because I’d already told him to knock it off over a dozen times and to stop calling me that. First of all, I wasnotnosy. I just had a high eagerness to learn. Second, he only called me that because it rhymed with my name. Third, it wasn’t even original. Fourth, he was an asshat, who likely had the IQ of a gnat. I opened my mouth to snap at him again, but then Mrs. R strolled in and immediately headed to the whiteboard.

“All right, I have guidelines for what we’re going to focus on today,” she said, her voice firm and straightforward. “If you’ll direct your attention to the board…”

Mrs. R was strict, and when she spoke, she expected everyone else to be quiet and listen. I just shot Callum a glare and continued to go through my bag, half-listening to what the teacher was saying.

Begrudgingly, I had to admit to myself that the bag was kind of a mess. I found the sketchbook wedged between my math textbook and science binder, stuck to an open chocolate wrapper. Sketchbook acquired, I put the bag down and gave the teacher my full attention. I barely had time to notice what she was writing on the board when I felt Gwendolyn tug on my arm. She knew I hated being bothered during art, just like she hated being bothered during creative writing. Not to mention there was Mrs. R’s whole “no talking” rule.

I shrugged her off and didn’t take my eyes off the board.

“Psst, Josie,” Gwendolyn whispered. “Can you give this to Cal?”

“No,” I muttered under my breath. “Shh, I’m trying to pay attention.”

“But he’s right next to you,” she insisted. “Just slide it over.”

If it were anyone else, I’d ignore them. But Gwendolyn was my best friend. I glanced over to find her giving me the most wide-eyed, pleading stare. Against my better judgment, I snatched the note from her, only to hear Mrs. R clear her throat loudly. I looked up to find the teacher standing in front of my desk, giving me that stern expression she always wore when she was unamused.

“Ms. Graham, you know there is no note passing in class.”

“It’s not my—”

“No excuses. Give it here!”

Sheepishly, I handed it over, and she snatched it away, making a show of crossing to her desk and putting the note in her top drawer. Thankfully, she didn’t open it and read it aloud—she sometimes did. That would have beensoembarrassing for poor Gwendolyn. Without another word, Mrs. R went back to the board. I glared at Gwendolyn, only to realize all the color had drained from her face.

“We have to get it back,” she hissed.

“No! Just forget it. Write another one.”

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