Researching With the Jock {BWWM High School Romance}

Notes and Second Chances

Greg

After Vivian left, I walk back upstairs my room and put our presentation sheet in my folder, lifting my backpack from the floor and put the folder in my backpack, sealed shut. Having Vivian as my partner for our project knocks my socks off because we're two different people in two different cliques; her, a straight-A student who sits in the front row seat of every class, hand always in the air,  answers on the tip of her tongue.  She's got a big, round... well, she's got a presence, you know? Me? I'm a quarterback, the guy everyone expects to see tossing a football, not buried in a history book. She's teaching me things I never noticed before, like how to focus, how to listen, and maybe a little about what I didn't get right when I was dating Susan.

Now that Vivian and I finished our presentation for the day, it's enough time for me to hit the books. I settle into my chair, the squeaky kind that every kid has in their bedroom, the one that sounds like a dying bird if you lean back too far. My U.S. History textbook is open to the chapter on the Cold War, and I'm determined to make sense of it. I glance at the alarm clock—7:45 PM. Enough time to dig into this stuff before Mom hollers for me to take out the trash.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thought. This isn't the time to be thinking about Vivian. It's study time. I flip a few pages ahead, skimming over a diagram of the Berlin Wall.

"Okay, Greg. You got this," I mumble to myself, propping my head up with one hand. It's just me, my textbook, and the flashcards. 

Just as I start making sense of it, the door to my room creaks open. It's Claudine, peeking her head in. "Mom says dinner's almost ready," she notifies.

"Yeah, okay. I'll be down in a minute," I reply, trying not to sound too annoyed. I watch her retreat down the hallway before turning back to my textbook.

Finally, I manage to focus long enough to jot down a few notes about NATO and the Warsaw Pact. My handwriting is a mess, barely legible, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. I'm halfway through a practice quiz in the back of the chapter when my mom calls up the stairs.

"Greg, come down and eat before it gets cold!"

I let out a sigh and close my textbook, marking the page with a crumpled receipt. I head downstairs, where the smell of spaghetti fills the air. Mom is setting the table, and Claudine, Lucy, and Dad are already in their seats, fiddling with a fork.

"Did you finish your history stuff?" Dad asks as I sit down.

"Almost," I lie. "I've got until Thursday, anyway."

Dad gives me a look. "You better not leave it to the last minute, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," I say, twirling some spaghetti onto my fork.

As we eat, my mind drifts back to Vivian. I think about her serious expression when she told me, "If we don't nail this project, neither of us is getting an A." It's weirdly nice to have someone keeping me accountable for once. And even though I still don't know why Mrs. Cruz picked me as Vivian's partner, it's kind of cool that she did.

After dinner, I head back upstairs, but instead of diving back into the Cold War, I find myself flipping through our presentation notes. Her handwriting is so neat, like she's got everything figured out. I guess I envy that. I mean, I've been trying to get my grades up so I can get back on the team and maybe—just maybe—get Dad off my back about not living up to my "potential."

I shove the notes into my backpack and zip it up tight, as if sealing away all those thoughts about Vivian, the project, and everything else. It's a long way from now until Thursday, but I need to get my head straight if I'm going to ace that quiz and not blow the presentation.

I flop back into my chair, staring at my textbook like it's a puzzle I can't quite solve. "Come on, focus," I whisper to myself. I try to imagine how Vivian would quiz me, drilling me with rapid-fire questions until I couldn't mess up.

For a second, I can almost hear her voice, sharp but kind of teasing, saying, "What year did the Berlin Wall go up, Greg?" I imagine myself stumbling over the answer, then her rolling her eyes with that little half-smile she does. "It's 1961, you goof. Get it right or you're screwed on Thursday."

I shake my head and grin to myself, feeling a weird little rush. It's nice, having someone push me like that, even if it's all in my head right now. Maybe... maybe we're not so different after all.

Before I know it, I'm actually getting through the chapter. I jot down more notes, and this time, they make sense. I don't know if it's because I've got Vivian's imaginary voice in my head, but I'm starting to think I might have a shot at this quiz after all. The Cold War staring back at me from the pages of my textbook. I glance at my backpack, where our presentation notes are tucked safely away. And for the first time in a while, I actually think I can do this. I'm going to ace this quiz, and I'm going to show Vivian she didn't make a mistake teaming up with me.

Because even though we're different, there's something about being around her that makes me want to be better—not just for her, but for myself too.

I pick up my pencil, feeling a little more confident. It's Monday night, and there's still a lot of work to do. But somehow, I think I might actually get through it.