I just shrug, because what am I supposed to say to that?
“God, you’re annoying with that, man,” Matt responds to my silence, as if my parents having money is my fault or something.
“What do you want me to say? I still work hard, I’m still going to have just as hard of a job getting into college as you two. Probably harder, because both of you practically have your sports scholarships locked up.”
“We all don’t just have a free ride into college, or a guaranteed job waiting for us when we get out.” Matt rolls his eyes.
“And neither do I,” I shoot back, completely on the defensive.
“Yes, you do. Your daddy is waiting with his sure thing salary.” Glavin starts in too, and I might pummel them both.
It pisses me off that everyone just assumes I’m going into the family business because it’s the easy thing to do. As if taking advanced math and science courses is the easy thing. Not only that, but it’s not like my dad sits on some board at Brockden. Yes, he has a lot of friends and colleagues in the architecture space that could put in a good word, but that isn’t going to get me into the program. There are only so many spots, and those are won with great grades, SAT or ACT scores, and all of the other mumbo jumbo universities look for when accepting a student.
Not only that, but it’s as if they’re saying I’m settling or something, wanting to stay close to home and work in my family’s firm. I could go live in a big city, compete for work among architecture’s bright new stars, and be the same twenty-something douchebag a lot of my peers will turn into when they come out of college.
But that’s truly never been my dream. No, I really want to move back to Chester and work side by side with my father.
“You’re both assholes. If you think that I’m really just resting on my laurels and taking handouts when I work my ass—”
Matt holds his hands up. “We’re busting your chops, bro. We know you’re a kid genius.”
But Glavin doesn’t look like he’s on board. I know how tough his childhood was, coming from a broken home with five other siblings to compete with for food, attention, and everything else. He still hates me for how easy he thinks I have it.
“Whatever. Either of you have dates yet?” Glavin asks, knowing he’s wading into dangerous territory.
“Seriously, dude? You know what happened last time we talked about this, right?” My voice is pure annoyance.
Matt chuckles. “Don’t worry, I won’t make any comments about Blair. I like my face not bleeding more than I like a hot girl.”
He’s right; we haven’t exactly had any more discussions about Blair. Not that I haven’t been thinking about her way more than I’d like to admit. I have no idea what’s happened in the last month and a half. In the last two years, I’ve managed to keep my loathing for her securely in place. I’ve barely had to interact with her, and my frustrating attraction to her has gone unmentioned.
Then she shows up on the first day of school, hotter than Pamela Anderson running in slow motion down a beach, and it’s like my brain, dick, heart, and friends can’t fucking shut up about her. She’s everywhere I look, even in my own house.
It’s not like we haven’t had numerous occasions where our parents’ parties or holiday celebrations have brought us together. But in the past, I’ve just gritted my teeth and put up with it.
So why did I spill my stupid guts in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes? I showed her that I actually care; I let my guard slip. I’ve been cracking any time I am around her now, and it has to stop.
Because for all I know, I’ll let her in again and she’ll break me even more than she had that night two years ago.
“And I like a bunch of hot girls more than I like just one. Which is why I plan on cleaning up at homecoming.” I puff my chest out like the cocky asshole I’m being.
Every word is true, though. To safeguard myself against whatever is growing in my chest for Blair, I have to show her just how little she means to me. And homecoming is going to give her a front row center view of exactly that.
12
Blair
After two more weeks of running around like crazy, organizing parking, the DJ, décor, and everything in between, homecoming is finally upon us.
Nate and I, of course, have to show up two hours early at the high school to get everything set up. Which means I have the pleasure of getting dressed and doing my hair and makeup in the girl’s locker room while the rest of the senior class sneaks shots of vodka in their cars before heading inside. It’s a horribly kept secret that almost all of the upperclassmen come to homecoming drunk, and the teachers try to enforce the rule that you’ll be kicked out. That’s never happened in my three years at the dance, and I know it probably won’t happen this year.
The gym has been swathed in silver and black balloons, streamers, and ceiling drapes, all under our supervision, of course. We’ve transformed what is usually a sweaty mess of a room where students play volleyball and basketball into a halfway decent fantasyland. You almost can’t tell that it’s the place where most students pad their report cards with As they barely work for.
I run a strand of hair through my curling iron in
