Relying On Ben and Jerry (Waltham #1)

Chapter Eight: Every Time a Bell Rings

“Dude,” Tyler said. “So we’re going to break into partners and finish this worksheet on Beatle-mania in the US of A. Got it?”

Most everyone had stopped listening at “partners” and had already started to push their desks together and break into rapid conversation like they hadn’t talked to each other in years instead of since the end of lunch about a half hour ago, so the rest of the speech was only heard by me and that weird kid who was totally eating glue over in the front row. Everything around me turned into a constantly moving chaos, and I just sat there awkwardly, hoping that no one would notice me, and that I wouldn’t be partnered with that kid eating glue.

Of course, Tyler moseyed on over nearly immediately, glancing around at the formed partners and frowning a little when he noticed that no one was clinging to me like we were best friends forever. “Hey guys,” he called out before I could tell him to stuff it and that I would rather work alone. The class’s attention flickered back to him. “Why don’t one of you break away from the norm and come on over here?” he tried to entice them, but it wasn’t so convincing coming from someone totally Zen and had no emotions in his voice. “Linny needs a partner.”

“Lena,” I corrected him as someone called, “I’ll be her partner.”

The eyes all shifted to the standing figure like they were watching a bad car accident, every pair of eyes but mine—I was a little too busy making sure I didn’t wet my pants to meet his eyes that I could feel burning a hole into my forehead.

“Righteous,” Tyler muttered before stepping away from the empty seat beside me. “Thanks for helping out the little dudette, Q.”

“No problem,” the voice said from his new spot in the chair now positioned across from me, and I wondered just how time it would take me to run to the first-story window, throw it open, and just launch myself out of it and see how far I flew before I belly-flopped onto the ice.

When Tyler turned away and managed to block my sight of the window, I figured that I wouldn’t quite be quick enough.

I glanced over at Quinton like I was about to look Death in the eye. If he noticed that I looked a little petrified, he at least didn’t allow it to affect the grin on his face.

“Nice tutu,” he told me, totally amused. “It really brings out your eyes.”

“Thanks,” I replied, staring a hole in the worksheet, but my words came out more along the lines of “THA?”

Quinton leaned forward on the desk, and in essence towards to me. The room got a little hotter as I glanced up to see if he was staring at me, and even when I looked at him he still didn’t look away. I felt my face turn as red as a tomato less than a second before I concluded that my stomach was going to blow up like a nuclear bomb. Why did this boy have to be so darn adorable?

As if he knew exactly what I was thinking—or he just noticed that I was staring at him in open-mouthed awe—his chest puffed out proudly. Boys.

“So I kind of expected you to be a little bit . . . different,” Quinton bluntly explained to me with a slow smile, “but you got hit a couple more times than I thought with the Different Stick. That and a rainbow, and maybe a couple of unicorns for good measure.”

Be still my heart, this boy was every shade of perfect. I laughed but it sounded maniacal and forced so I quickly shut up. I saw a couple of kids scoot their chairs a few more inches away from me nervously anyway.

“Yeah,” I replied lamely. “I guess my dancing should have been a bit of a clue, huh?”

“I will not apologize for art,” he announced proudly.