Relying On Ben and Jerry (Waltham #1)

Chapter Eighteen: The Successful Failure

“Lena,” Quinton said, his eyes widening. “What happened?”

“It is a long and complicated story,” I sighed, reaching up and rubbing the gigantic red mark in between my eyes self-consciously. “Basically, my friends are idiots, and someone let Peter von Gordon have a Nerf gun.”

“Enough said,” he told me soberly. “One time I was on the opposing team in paintball against him. It was traumatic.”

“Then you understand,” I told him gravely.

Quinton glanced around the room—probably on the lookout for Tyler, who was mellowed out in the corner and humming to himself the tune of Eleanor Rigby as the class wandered about wildly through the room, nearly having a rave without the glow paint and sporadically flashing colored lights. He looked back at me, suddenly looking amused about something.

“So what else did you do this weekend?” he asked me casually, which meant that Mathieu had totally squealed on me, the smart little jerk. “Anything interesting? Anything at all?”

“We went around Boston and Harvard Square before having three-legged races through the library of Norma’s house,” I replied, shrugging. “Peter tried to kill me a number of times. Colonel tripped and face planted into some old guy’s grave on one of the historic cemeteries in Boston. The usual.”

“The usual,” he repeated skeptically. “That’s all you did?”

“For the most part,” I called his bluff, feigning disinterest. “How about you, was your weekend more eventful?”

“Well, I guess—my brother came home from school on Sunday,” he replied, and I was busted. “He’s a headache and a half. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear my mother screaming at him when he nearly set the kitchen on fire while he was making a grilled cheese. She sounds like an air horn when she yells at people.”

I laughed a little because the mental picture actually was quite amusing. I smirked and asked, “So I guess your brother goes somewhere local, right? Since he just came home for one day.”

“Haven’t you heard? He’s talked about a lot around here,” he said. I shrugged, making an effort to look like I was both clueless and confused all at the same time, but by the look on his face I wasn’t convincing anyone, which was okay because I knew that I had no shot in doing that anyway with his brother specifically having known my name and where I lived.

“Wait, what’s his name again?” I asked, my eyebrows pulling together. “He sounds kind of familiar; maybe I’ve heard of him.”

“His name’s Mathieu,” he told me, his eyebrows soaring. “He’s going to Harvard.”

“Oh!” I gasped. “Big head? Knows an assortment of random useless facts? Looks kind of like a hobo?”

Quinton snorted a laugh and replied, “Hair curlers?”

“Hey, no judgment,” I scolded him, laughing. “My hair’s still curly from all day with those things in. What I want to know is how he knew of me when I was introduced.”

He turned a little red, but other than that he had a truly amazing poker face. “Oh, well, my mom probably told him that your family had moved in—that house has been empty for a long time and the whole neighborhood was talking about it when it was bought. Someone probably mentioned that you dress a little . . . unusually, and he put together two and two, I guess. There must be some reason he got into Harvard, after all.”

Too bashful to call out the maybe-lie and too chicken to be rejected, I just nodded absently, inadvertently letting him know that I wasn’t really convinced, even though I was sure that it had to have been obvious. Nonetheless, I was putting on a good enough show as it was, and I was willing to let him fly just this once.