mr. badboy

Part 19

got to be a reason why you're looking to get drunk on a school night," Heath says, then reconsiders it. "I mean, more so than usual."

Heath is in most of my business classes and is in a similar situation to me. Meaning, pressure from his parents is the main reason why he's getting his degree. With his carefree attitude and penchant for environmental causes, Heath would be much happier surfing his life away during summers in Tofino and snowboarding on Mount Washington in the winter. He's also a pretty good wingman. There's something about the shaggy-haired, perpetually tanned, surfer dude that the girls can't resist. Might be the fact that he's a pot dealer and they get their weed for free

There's this girl in my writing class..." I begin.

"Again? How many of them are there? I should have joined that class," he remarks, signaling the waitress for a drink.

"Definitely enough of them," I tell him, even though that's not why I'm taking the class. "But I haven't slept with this one."

"Hard to get?"

I grunt. "I have no doubt she is, but I'm not even trying. She drives me up the fucking wall."

"And you're saying you haven't fucked her?" The waitress drops off his beer, giving him a dirty look before she heads back.

"No," I say emphatically. "She's not my type."

"Anything with a hole is your type, Blake."

"Fuck off," I tell him, taking a swig of my beer. I can feel it slowly go to work, my nerves unkinking one by one. "Not this girl. You know those girls who refuse to smile or laugh at anything, who are born with a silver spoon in their arse?"

"I think you mean mouth."

"It's the arse with this one. Walks around with a sense of entitlement that they think they've somehow earned because they are so goddamn serious about life? Well, that's her. I bet she doesn't even need to wear glasses, she just wears them to try and look smart."

Heath grimaces. "Damn. Is she hot? You know I have a thing for girls with glasses."

I glare at him. "Listen brother, you just heard what I said. You don't want to go near her."

He takes a gulp of his beer and leans back in his seat, wiping his mouth. He gives me a lazy smile that I know all too well. "Just last week you were telling me about that annoying hostess from Earls you slept with, the one who started talking about her doll collection the minute you finished fucking."

"Yeah, and in order to get out of the rest of the date I had to pretend I was moving back to England the next day. Then I drove past her a few days later. I'm surprised Mr. Mean didn't get egged."

He points his glass at me. "You didn't answer my question. Is she hot?"

"No," I tell him, knowing that if I admit she's hot in the slightest he'll never listen to my plight. Oh, the fucking plight. So I decide to pull up the email and show it to him. "Anyway, I got paired with her for my last assignment and this is the email she sends me tonight."

He squints as he reads it over. When he's done, he looks almost impressed. "Thems some big words for a dummy like you," he says in his best hick accent. "Seriously though, sounds like the rest of the semester is going to be rough. Good luck with that."

"Nice to have your support."

"Well, I don't know. You going to answer her? You want me to write the email for you? I know this is the face of an innocent," he says, stroking his jaw between his fingers, "but I'm pretty good at putting people in their place."

"Heath, you can't get her stoned through the computer," I remind him, although I doubt she'd smile even if she was high. "It's fine, I got this."

And so that's how we spend the rest of the night. Several pints later, the band is blaring shitty Celtic punk, we're both sauced, Heath is high, and we've composed the world's most ridiculous response to Amanda.

"Do I press send?" I ask him, my voice slurring a bit.

He doesn't answer, just leans over and presses the send icon for me.

Whoops.

"Let's get another round," Heath says.

So we do.

CHAPTER THREE

Amanda

I wake up the next morning to Ana puttering around the kitchen and singing along to what sounds like an Estonian folk version of Mariah Carey's "Butterfly."

I groan and roll over, my head smarting a bit from