Brooks

“Jesus Christ, girl. You look like shit,” Macs says the moment she spots me in front of my locker.

“Thanks,” I grumble, rolling my eyes.

“And your mood matches your look. Impressive,” she teases, bursting into laughter. “What’s up with your socks? Is this some new fashion trend I missed?” Her eyes lock on my feet, her lips curling into an amused smile.

I glance down and take in the colorful socks sticking out of my sneakers. The fact that their patterns don’t match is one thing, but the different lengths and textures? Yeah, it’s a disaster.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” I mutter, already annoyed, as if this morning could get any worse. “I didn’t sleep last night, and when I finally dozed off, my stupid alarm went off minutes later like a freaking siren screaming in my ears. You know how grumpy I get when I’m sleepy,” I explain, grabbing my books from the locker and slamming it shut.

Macs laughs out loud. “Which means I’m keeping my distance today because sleepy Brooks is bitchy Brooks.”

“Be my guest. I’d stay away from me if I could,” I smirk.

“Explain to me again why you look like shit today, Brooks.” She points at my wrinkled T-shirt and jeans and my unbrushed hair, which currently resembles a cheap mop. “Because I need to figure out what steps I should take to make you more presentable to society.”

“I told you already, I—” I stop mid-sentence when I spot the Evans twins walking by with Zoe and a couple of other girls, last night’s memories hitting me like a truck, especially the quarterback’s blue eyes that have been haunting me ever since.

“What is it?” Macs frowns, studying my pale face. “You still look like shit, but now it’s a ‘saw-a-ghost’ kind of shit.”

I blink a few times and quickly look away from the popular crowd, as if they might notice me. But let’s be real; they’ve already forgotten about the food truck girl who handed them a couple of burgers and fries.

“How was work last night?” Macs asks casually as we head toward homeroom.

I shrug, not in the mood to mention the Evans twins. If I do, she’ll make a huge deal out of it, drilling me with questions like what they wore, what they ordered, and whether they were with any girls. I can’t deal with that right now. Honestly, I can’t deal with anything. All I can think about is my bed…and Timothée’s stupid blue eyes.

Ugh. Not Timothée’s eyes, for God’s sake.

As we walk past the twins and their group, I keep my head down, my eyes glued to the floor. Macs, however, makes a point to gawk at them like a full-on pervert and stalker, which only adds to my humiliation.

Why am I best friends with Macs again?

Macs winks and whistles at the twins. “You’re hot, hot, hot, Evans boys. Feel free to join me in my bed anytime.”

“Oh, gosh,” I mutter, hiding my face behind my hands and shaking my head.

The Evans twins ignore my best friend’s bold invitation, but their friends don’t. Their snickering grows louder and nastier, prompting me to grab Macs by the elbow and drag her away from that toxic mess. I don’t stop until we reach the homeroom door.

“What the hell, Macs? Are you insane?” I snap, breathless and burning with shame. “You’re turning us into targets for the popular crowd; believe me, my life is miserable enough without their mockery and stupid comments about how pathetic we are,” I hiss, my jaw clenched.

“Jeez, chill out, Brooks. I was just having a little fun,” she scoffs, breezing into the classroom.

I sigh and follow her in silence, as there’s no point in pushing it. Mackenzie does what she wants, and that’s never going to change.

* * *

As the teacher drones on halfway through Literature class, my classmates and I struggle to keep our eyes open, doing our best not to yawn or doze off. But honestly? My soul is already in bed. Rest in peace, soul.

“Hello, students. I am Principal Rivera, and I’d like to see Brooklyn Bumps in my office now. Thank you for your attention.”

The principal’s grave voice suddenly echoes through the room, startling everyone and forcing them to pretend they weren’t just daydreaming about the porn stashed in secret folders on their computers at home.

As soon as the intercom clicks off, all eyes turn to me. Great. The pity stares and smug grins on their stupid faces annoy the hell out of me.

“The virgin nerd is being called to the principal’s office. That’s a first,” announces a girl whose name I couldn’t care less about, triggering a wave of laughter.

I roll my eyes, shove my books into my backpack, and speed-walk to the door, doing my best to dodge every sneer and giggle thrown my way.

A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of the principal’s office, listening to muffled voices behind the door. I can’t help wondering—are my parents here? Am I in trouble? I haven’t done anything…I think.

“You can go in, Brooklyn,” says the secretary—I don’t remember her name—gesturing at the door. “Just knock once or twice and open it. Mr. Rivera and the Evanses are waiting for you.”

“What?” I spin toward her, wide-eyed. “Why are the Evanses waiting for me?” My voice comes out high and wobbly as I grip the doorknob.

Before she can answer, the door behind me swings open violently, yanking me along with it. I practically fold backward, still holding the knob, and let out a scream that echoes through the hallway as I land flat on my ass, just in time for my grand entrance.

“Oh my goodness, dear,” a stunning woman gasps, rushing to help me up.

“Man, my ass is going to be sore for days,” I murmur, rubbing it absentmindedly as I stand.

“Are you all right?” she asks, her eyes full of concern.

For the first time, I glance at the blonde woman whose grey eyes are boring into me. She looks like she’s in her thirties or something, although I could be wrong, considering the obvious traces of Botox and plastic surgery across her face.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I mumble apologetically before stepping back and closing the door behind me.

“Miss Bumps, thank you for coming,” Principal Rivera cuts in. “I’ve called you here because Mr. and Mrs. Evans would like to speak with you.” He gestures toward the plastic woman and the charming man sitting beside her.

“We’d like to ask if you could tutor Timothée in math,” the man begins, motioning toward the stupidly hot boy sitting next to him. Only then do I realize that the quarterback is also in the room, and that he witnessed my spectacular ass-plant just minutes ago.

Great. That’s just great.

“I don’t need a math tutor,” Timothée groans, glaring at his parents.

Meanwhile, I’m too busy ogling the stupid jock in his stylish outfit. The white shirt and messy blue necktie give him a solemn yet disheveled look, made even better—or worse—by the dark jeans and black sneakers. His blond hair is tousled like last night, and his blue eyes are hiding something I can’t quite figure out, making him even more frustratingly handsome than he already is by default.

“Yes, you do, Timmy. You’re failing math and one step away from being kicked off the football team. Is that what you want?” Mrs. Evans snaps.

“Dimmy and Zoe can help me. I don’t need a math babysitter,” he grunts. Then he glances at me, arches an eyebrow, and scoffs, “You seriously want her to teach me math?” He points at my socks. “She can’t even match her own socks.”

My face must be a hundred shades of red as I glance down at my feet—one green sock covered in characters from some random animated movie, the other brown with monsters from a comic my brother is obsessed with. I must have grabbed his socks this morning when I was rushing to find the first outfit that didn’t smell like despair. Even though the little terror is twelve, his big feet are already the same size as mine.

“Timothée, manners,” Mr. Evans scolds, casting a sharp look at his son, who couldn’t care less about my presence or the idea of being tutored by me.

“Anyway, as you’ve heard from Mr. and Mrs. Evans, Timothée is failing his math classes and urgently needs a tutor. Since you’re one of Oak Hills’s top students and I also happen to know you’ve been looking for tutoring gigs, I recommended you,” Mr. Rivera explains, likely hoping to keep me from bolting out the door and leaving the Evanses in a cloud of dust. He knows I have a short temper and no problem walking away if the stupid jock keeps treating me like crap. Sure, I could use the cash, but I’m not about to sign up for daily humiliation.

“We trust Mr. Rivera’s recommendation, and we know he wouldn’t suggest you if you weren’t capable,” Mrs. Evans remarks, her tone almost pleading.

“I’m sure you can hire a professional math tutor for your son, Mrs. Evans. I’m not exactly qualified.” I give her an excuse, because saying ‘I don’t want to be around your jerk of a son’ probably isn’t the best look.

“Are you rejecting our offer?” Mr. Evans asks, clearly surprised.

The words slip out before I can stop them. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

He hesitates. “Because...well…we know our son is very popular and girls usually do whatever they can to spend even a few miserable seconds with him.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “My wife and I assumed you would never turn down an opportunity that thousands of girls would kill for.”

I gape at them, stunned.

Do they seriously see Timothée as some kind of teenage god?

My gaze shifts to the boy in question, who is still watching me silently. There is mischief burning in those ridiculously blue eyes, and even though I want to slap that smug smile off his face, my brain betrays me with thoughts of kissing it instead.

The direction my dirty thoughts are heading is dangerously alarming, so I force myself to look away and turn to Mr. Rivera, who is neutral, harmless, and thankfully not wearing a crooked grin that makes me want to commit sins.

“So, what do you say, Brooklyn? Will you be Timothée’s tutor?” the principal insists.

“No,” I blurt without thinking, shooting a side glance at the smirking twin. “I won’t.”

With that, I turn on my heel, open the door, and storm out of the office, already planning to ditch my next class and call it a damn day.