thing left to do.”
I almost hated to ask. . . .
“What?”
“Set up a sting.”
Chapter Seven
“SO, HOW WAS THE DATE WITH CHASE?” SAM ASKED THE next afternoon as she pulled her American Government book from her backpack.
“Stakeout,” I corrected, mirroring her actions and adding a notebook to the pile of studying materials on her bed.
“Bummer.” She paused. “Did Chase even mention your outfit?”
I fought down heat in my cheeks as I answered. “Yes. And I am never going out looking like that again.”
“Why? You looked hot.”
“I looked like a girl who thought she was going out with a guy and ended up on a stakeout, squatting in the mud in a pair of heels and smelling like jasmine! I felt ridiculous.”
“Oh.” Sam bit her lip. “Sorry. I was just kinda hoping you guys would get together.”
“God, why?” I asked, trying to ignore the blast of embarrassment still coursing through me.
Sam shrugged. “I know how uncomfortable you get around Kyle and me.”
I bit my lip. Was I that obvious? “You guys aren’t that bad.”
“I just thought it would be fun to double-date. Then maybe our kissing and stuff wouldn’t squick you out so much.”
“Thanks.” I shot her a smile. “But I’m not squicked. You guys are fine.”
“Cool,” she said, grinning back at me as she reached into a drawer in her desk and came out with a pencil, pad of paper, and an eraser, all in a matching purple desk set.
My school supplies, on the other hand, consisted of a beat-up spiral-bound notebook and a number two pencil with bite marks on the end.
While Sam is my best friend, her bedroom could not look more different from mine. My walls were a blank eggshell, the same color that had been there when Mom and I had moved in, and were covered in posters and photos ripped from fashion magazines. I had a corkboard tacked to the wall, where pictures of Sam and me were attached with different-colored tacks, and a full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I had a desk, somewhere, but it had been a while since I’d actually used it as a desk—more often it just doubled as a place to put clothes from the overflow of my closet. My bed was rarely made, school papers kind of lived where there was a surface to put them down, and the overall appearance was lived-in.
Sam’s room, in contrast, looked like an ad from Pottery Barn. The walls were pale violet, to go with the bedspread on her perfectly made bed, and all her furniture matched: a white clapboard look dominating the headboard, dresser, and desk. Above the desk in the corner was a board covered in quilted fabric with ribbons running diagonally across it to keep photos in place (a couple of them copies of the ones on my board at home), and every drawer, cubbyhole, and cupboard was perfectly ordered inside and out with organizers of every size.
And, for as much as Sam was into fashion, I didn’t see a stray piece of clothing anywhere.
Sam was like my tidy evil twin.
I shifted on her bed, almost afraid to make a wrinkle as I flipped my binder open to my American Government notes.
“So how did the stakeout go?” Sam asked.
“Terrible.” I shoved my book bag onto the floor then filled Sam in on the Chris fiasco.
“And by the time we got back to the rock,” I finished, “the cash was gone. We’d totally missed him.”
“Wow,” Sam said, shaking her head. “Chris Fret. I never would have figured him for a cheater. He always seemed so . . . normal.”
“Yeah, well, apparently ‘normal’ also means too busy to study for a quiz.”
“You know,” Sam said, scrunching up her face, “it’s totally unfair to those of us who are struggling to get those good grades. I mean, take this American Government midterm we have coming up. How many people do you think already have the answers to that? Mr. Bleaker grades on a curve, you know. Those cheaters are ruining the curve for the rest of us.”
I had to agree—it sucked big elephant
I almost hated to ask. . . .
“What?”
“Set up a sting.”
Chapter Seven
“SO, HOW WAS THE DATE WITH CHASE?” SAM ASKED THE next afternoon as she pulled her American Government book from her backpack.
“Stakeout,” I corrected, mirroring her actions and adding a notebook to the pile of studying materials on her bed.
“Bummer.” She paused. “Did Chase even mention your outfit?”
I fought down heat in my cheeks as I answered. “Yes. And I am never going out looking like that again.”
“Why? You looked hot.”
“I looked like a girl who thought she was going out with a guy and ended up on a stakeout, squatting in the mud in a pair of heels and smelling like jasmine! I felt ridiculous.”
“Oh.” Sam bit her lip. “Sorry. I was just kinda hoping you guys would get together.”
“God, why?” I asked, trying to ignore the blast of embarrassment still coursing through me.
Sam shrugged. “I know how uncomfortable you get around Kyle and me.”
I bit my lip. Was I that obvious? “You guys aren’t that bad.”
“I just thought it would be fun to double-date. Then maybe our kissing and stuff wouldn’t squick you out so much.”
“Thanks.” I shot her a smile. “But I’m not squicked. You guys are fine.”
“Cool,” she said, grinning back at me as she reached into a drawer in her desk and came out with a pencil, pad of paper, and an eraser, all in a matching purple desk set.
My school supplies, on the other hand, consisted of a beat-up spiral-bound notebook and a number two pencil with bite marks on the end.
While Sam is my best friend, her bedroom could not look more different from mine. My walls were a blank eggshell, the same color that had been there when Mom and I had moved in, and were covered in posters and photos ripped from fashion magazines. I had a corkboard tacked to the wall, where pictures of Sam and me were attached with different-colored tacks, and a full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I had a desk, somewhere, but it had been a while since I’d actually used it as a desk—more often it just doubled as a place to put clothes from the overflow of my closet. My bed was rarely made, school papers kind of lived where there was a surface to put them down, and the overall appearance was lived-in.
Sam’s room, in contrast, looked like an ad from Pottery Barn. The walls were pale violet, to go with the bedspread on her perfectly made bed, and all her furniture matched: a white clapboard look dominating the headboard, dresser, and desk. Above the desk in the corner was a board covered in quilted fabric with ribbons running diagonally across it to keep photos in place (a couple of them copies of the ones on my board at home), and every drawer, cubbyhole, and cupboard was perfectly ordered inside and out with organizers of every size.
And, for as much as Sam was into fashion, I didn’t see a stray piece of clothing anywhere.
Sam was like my tidy evil twin.
I shifted on her bed, almost afraid to make a wrinkle as I flipped my binder open to my American Government notes.
“So how did the stakeout go?” Sam asked.
“Terrible.” I shoved my book bag onto the floor then filled Sam in on the Chris fiasco.
“And by the time we got back to the rock,” I finished, “the cash was gone. We’d totally missed him.”
“Wow,” Sam said, shaking her head. “Chris Fret. I never would have figured him for a cheater. He always seemed so . . . normal.”
“Yeah, well, apparently ‘normal’ also means too busy to study for a quiz.”
“You know,” Sam said, scrunching up her face, “it’s totally unfair to those of us who are struggling to get those good grades. I mean, take this American Government midterm we have coming up. How many people do you think already have the answers to that? Mr. Bleaker grades on a curve, you know. Those cheaters are ruining the curve for the rest of us.”
I had to agree—it sucked big elephant
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