How To Train Your Boyfriend

Chapter 2: Pink Cars and the Digestive System

Pink Cars and the Digestive System

Francie Cabot's car was bright pink.

There was a lot I could tell you about Francie, my best friend and the real life incarnation of my moral compass. But instead of going on a long tangent about her characteristics and passions, I  said this: Francie's car was bright pink. Because that was, in my professional opinion, one of the most important things to know about her.

She drove me to school almost every morning and took me home almost every afternoon. This wasn't because I didn't have a car, but because the shit show of a car that I did have was about as reliable as a Kardashian marriage. A few weeks before, a mysterious blinking light appeared on my dash, which meant that it would be in the possession of the local mechanic for another week. It would only be a matter of months before another light would appear and the process would repeat itself. I should've just bought a horse and carriage and been done with it.

"So how was your day?" Francie asked, looking at her reflection in the rear view mirror. I tried not to think about the fact that we were on a very busy road, and that Francie's lip gloss check could possibly cost us our lives.

"It was alright," I said. I didn't say anything else and hoped she wouldn't press for any more information. My backpack sat at my feet and I nudged it a bit with my toe, daring something to fall out. When nothing did, I sighed. She's going to find out eventually. "I'm doing the doctor thing again."

Francie must have panicked and tapped the break, jolting us forward and, of course, shaking loose a few items from my backpack. "You are doing what?"

"Mia Kahn asked me to. She's paying me a grand!" I explained, bending forward to retrieve the pens and highlighters that rolled at my feet.

"Isn't Mia Khan dating . . . "

"James Hadley," I finished with a nod, straightening back up. "Yeah."

Francie shook her head and sighed. "God, Sutton."

"It's a lot of money," I replied. And it really was. I knew Mia Khan came from a wealthy family - many kids at Oakland Prep did - but I didn't realize she was pay-girl-a-thousand-dollars-to-train-your-boyfriend wealthy. "No one has ever payed me that much."

Francie scoffed a bit, "Who else could afford to?"

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. "Well . . . you."

"No way," Francie said, pushing her sunglasses farther up her nose. "I have morals."

I laughed at this, knowing, or at least hoping, that she didn't mean it as an insult to me. Francie had never approved of the boy doctoring and, in a way, I couldn't blame her. While Theo found it scandalous and exciting, Francie just saw lies. And, to be fair, that is exactly what it was. Lying. Deception. I had perfected the art of tricking boys. I was a professional boy manipulator; and to Francie that wasn't anything to brag about.

"All I'm saying," I started, looking at her with a smile. "Is that I would make bank working for you."

"I guess. But I have Adam, so there isn't much you can do for me," Francie replied, turning onto my street. Adam was the love of Francie's life. Or so she said. Adam and Francie had been dating since freshman year of high school and, simply because of his constant presence, he had become a close friend of mine. "Besides, if you needed money I would just give it to you. No doctoring necessary."

I waved my hand at her, dismissing that idea completely. I was well aware that, if I asked, Francie would go out and buy me a new car in minutes. Her father, a successful businessman, and her mother, ballerina-turned-model (Yes.), were the richest people in town. By a lot. Francie had never been poor - or even remotely close to middle class - in her life. She grew up in a mansion, with granite floors and crystal chandeliers. Her ballet coach was from Russia and Francie had regular dinners with foreign diplomats.