Read Online Don't You Wish by Roxanne St. Claire - Free Book Online

enough of a pull for me to shimmy between it and the seat in front of him. My backside grazes his desk, and one of the boys in the back mumbles, “Nice view, huh, Charlie?”
    I expect color to rise to my cheeks, but my face remainscool as I level the speaker with an icy gaze. How fun is this? I don’t blush in this dream!
    The recipient of my dirty look, however, doesn’t have such good luck, as he brightens while the kid next to him—oh, it’s my boyfriend, Ryder—leans over and grabs the heckler’s T-shirt.
    “Shut up and move so she can sit back here,” Ryder snarls, then turns and completely annihilates me with a sexy smile.
    I glance at the pack of cool kids in the back—you don’t have to know them by name, they’re the same in every school, real or imagined. Two pretty girls are doing some hair twirling and boob adjustments, and there are a couple of jocks, and Ryder. That’s where I belong, I just know it.
    “Please, Ayla. Take a seat.” Mr. Brighton might be running out of love for me, so I slide into the closest desk with a quick shrug toward Ryder, who suddenly looks confused. Like he’s not sure if I’m blowing him off or not.
    Which is just laughable, considering he is el major hottero, as Lizzie would say. She’d obsess over his every move, cataloging his colors (yellow on Monday, red on Tuesday), analyzing his every syllable on Facebook. And probably never get the time of day from him. And now he’s worried that I’ve dissed him.
    Ohmigod, this is so much fun. I can barely keep from laughing out loud, looking around and taking it all in. But instinct tells me I shouldn’t.
    Still, after I get situated and the chattering stops, I can’t resist one more silent message to Ryder, a raised brow that just says
Maybe you’re not worth fighting for
. It has its intendedeffect—he narrows his steely eyes and gives a stone-cold-sexy look of determination.
    I ignore the little shiver that runs through me and turn to face the teacher, who’s straight out of “English teacher” central casting, with a ponytail and a blue denim button-down.
    “What are the chances you’ve completed the reading assignment I gave you three weeks ago?”
    A collective groan confirms that the chances are zero, making Croppe Academy no different than any other school.
    “Look at the person next to you, right now.”
    Everyone does, and my gaze lands on the rim of the hat.
    “Now take that person’s hand.”
    More groaning, and some laughter, a few outcries of “gay” and “retarded.” I reach my hand, but that boy is tucked low into his seat, long legs extended. His face is in shadow, some dark hair curling out around his neck. Guys who wear anything but baseball caps are complete wannabes; that law has to be universal no matter what world I’m inhabiting.
    Still he clenches his jaw, refusing to look at me. I try to imagine myself in his shoes, which, sadly, isn’t hard. How would I feel if I had to reach over and hold hands with Courtney Nicholas’s boyfriend du jour? I’d want to crawl into a hole.
    I’d be sympathetic to his situation, except he lost me with the hat and attitude.
    “Whoever you are holding hands with is your partner.” Mr. Brighton walks down the aisle between the boy and me. “Mr. Zelinsky, do you have a problem?”
    The kid just closes his eyes, then reluctantly takes myhand. His palm is warm and surprisingly dry. If the situation were reversed, my sweat glands would be set on Drench.
    “I’m working under the assumption that at least fifty percent of you have read the book. So we’re having a pop quiz on it right now, and you get the benefit of a partner’s help.”
    The resounding “Get out!” and “No way!” makes everyone drop their partner’s hand, including Zelinsky and me.
    “I understand if you have a good reason to be behind on the reading.” Mr. Brighton tilts his head toward me. “Ayla, for example, was busy with her father during the dedication of the new