Confessions of a Queen B*

Untitled Part 47

Brett wasn't at my locker when I arrived at school the next morning. 

I told myself that I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, I was the one who ran off and left him in the girls' locker room yesterday afternoon. Rejection like that would wound any guy's pride.

 Then my throat tightened. What if he'd been caught and suspended? What if he'd gotten in trouble because of me?

The guilt I'd been expecting since yesterday finally rammed into me, but not because of those few intense moments in the janitor's closet.

I was actually beginning to care about Brett.

Yeah, I was in serious shit. I pulled out my phone and started texting him, asking him where he was.

A minute later, my phone vibrated with the reply.

Overslept. See you in 4th period.

My worry whooshed out in a sigh of relief. Of course, that still meant I had to deal with him then. But it gave me more time to practice the "yesterday was a one-time fluke" speech. By the time fourth period came around, I had it memorized. I was going to politely tell him that he'd taken advantage of our situation, and I'd responded with poor judgment, but now after I'd had time to digest my actions, I wanted to let him know it would never happen again.

The words vanished from my mind the second he sat down next to me. In their place came a whiny little bitch of a voice clamoring for more one-on-one time with Brett. Please, please, please, please!

I moved to the chair at the opposite end of the table before I gave into it. 

He looked at the empty chair between us and then at me before placing the doll in the spot. Dark circles lined his eyes, making his lashes seem thicker than normal. Fatigue sagged around the corners of his mouth. "You forgot to pick up the doll yesterday," he said.

"Shit!" I'd been so completely absorbed in my own little crisis that I'd forgotten about our assignment. "It didn't keep you up all night, did it?"

He shook his head.

"I'll take the doll for the rest of the project," I offered, hoping to make it up to him.

"Fine." He turned to the front of the class as the bell rang, ending our conversation.

Or so I thought.

About three minutes into class, a message popped up on my laptop screen.

We need to talk about yesterday.

My breath hitched, but that did nothing to slow my frantic heart. I searched the room, looking for the sender before meeting Brett's eyes. They flickered once to my screen and then back to Mr. DePaul.

I watched Brett the entire time as I typed, No, we don't.

The message popped up on his screen. His frown deepened. Why?

How are you sending me messages on my laptop?

You didn't answer my question.

Did you hack my computer? Put some virus on it?

The corner of his mouth reversed its downward trend and curled up into a half-smile. I'm just using your school email address to message you, Lexi. Calm down. Anyone in the school network can do it.

Don't call me Lexi! I paused, remembering some hoopla last year about the school cracking down on messaging programs during class after I'd posted screenshots on my blog of the inappropriate conversations that were occurring. I thought the school banned this, BTW.

His grin widened to capture a hint of recklessness, and I caught a glimpse of yet another facet of Brett Pederson—the one who didn't mind breaking a few rules here and there. It fit the same guy who didn't mind making out with random girls in janitors' closets.

Can we meet back at your place after class? he asked.

Rule number one—thou shall not be alone with Brett Pederson. My damp fingertips left marks on my keyboard as I typed, Sorry—have plans.

We have a project to finish.

Shit! I'll take care of your half for you, I replied. Anything to keep me from having to be alone with him again.

He shook his head. No, I want my A, too.

He clicked a few things on his laptop, and an email appeared in my inbox. I opened it and read what he'd done already for his part of the project.

So we really don't need to work together anymore? An ache formed in my chest as I typed that. Once again, my hormones were at war with my common sense.

Minutes ticked by before Brett started his reply. Only if you don't want to.

I swallowed—hard—and struggled with the emotions swirling inside me. It has to be this way.

Why?

I curled my fingers into my palms, not trusting them to convey my thoughts accurately. I needed the power of my voice and my body to express them, not a blinking cursor on my screen.

Off in the distance, Mr. DePaul droned on and on about something, but my attention remained on the three letters on my screen. I was going to fail health class because Brett Pederson kept distracting me from the material that would be on the final—I knew it.

Time to end this. I took a deep breath and typed, It's complicated.

No shit.

Glad to know I wasn't the only one whose stomach was tied in knots after yesterday. Please, can we pretend yesterday never happened?

The hickey on my shoulder proved otherwise, but I could always turn to wishful thinking instead of actually dealing with fallout in a mature manner.

Another stretch of silence passed, and I wondered if Brett had decided it was better to listen to Mr. DePaul's lecture than me. Then, in the waning seconds of class, he wrote, If that's what you want.

The bell rang, and he snapped his laptop shut, bolting for the door faster than Sanchez did.

I stared at his words while everyone else filed out of class. Was that really what I wanted?

And even if it was, what could I do about it?