Chapter Four
–Haley–
I tried to read the three assigned chapters last night. I really tried. There was all this drama over the cheer bows, plus Kayla S—not my BFF Kayla but a different one—has been all insecure about not being able to learn our new choreography, so I spent three hours going over it with just her and me. She’s doing awesome, as I knew she would if she could just stop worrying about what everyone else thought. But still, three hours is three hours. Then Leslie got on my back about blowing off Kayla B. If Leslie would just join Team Don’t Enable the Girl with the Asshole Boyfriend, I think Kayla would crack. But she won’t. Anyway, I ended up reading half of the assignment, retaining nothing, and falling asleep at my desk, drooling on the textbook.
So when Mrs. Markson announces that she’ll be drilling us with questions on the reading and scoring our participation, I’m a hot mess. My palms are sticky with sweat, and I have to keep wiping them on my jean shorts. Several students stumble to answer questions, but many of them still get the answer right. I hold my breath when Mrs. Markson says, “Jamie?”
He jolts up, a red mark on his cheek from leaning against one hand. “Yeah?”
“Who is the father of our country?”
Before I can even think the name George Washington, Jamie is shouting, “God!”
Mrs. Markson purses her lips. “George Washington.” Then she makes a note in her gradebook.
Shit. That was Jamie’s first grade in this class, and he just flunked. A minute later, she’s glancing my way. “Haley, a U.S. senator is elected for how many years?”
Oh God, I know this. I know this. The president is four years. So, a senator is either two or six years and a house rep is whichever the senator isn’t.
“Uh…I think it’s…” I toss the two numbers back and forth in my head, and then I feel a soft kick against my seat and the word six is coughed out skillfully. “Six,” I blurt out.
Mrs. Markson nods and spins, turning her back to me. I blow out a huge breath and then glance over my shoulder. Fletcher Scott is busy scribbling in his notebook, not making eye contact with me. But he just gave me the answer. Unless I imagined a six in that cough. I didn’t imagine it. And I didn’t miss the fact that Mrs. Markson obviously gave Jamie and me two of the easiest questions. I’ve got to step up my game. I grab my pen and begin a new list.
Ways to Step Up My Civics Game:
1. Study twice a day.
2. Get to bed earlier.
3. Ignore Leslie’s guilt trips.
4. Make flash cards (color code them).
5. Memorize any answers that contain a number by making up a cheer or song (“six is for senators, four is for presidents, two is for house of rep…”).
“Fletcher, the house of representatives has how many voting members?”
Fletch shifts in his seat behind me, but he doesn’t hesitate before quietly answering. “Four hundred thirty-five.”
I wait to see if Mrs. Markson says he’s wrong, but like with me, she nods then turns to someone else. Never in a million years would I have answered that question correctly after simply reading the assigned chapters (note to self: add house of rep head count to the Civics number song). And this gets me thinking about the guy in the seat behind me and his apparent secret—or not so secret, I guess—genius.
When we get our midmorning fifteen-minute break, after Fletcher rises from his seat and heads out the door, I turn around and snatch his notebook from his desk. I flip back through at least twenty pages of meticulous notes. By the looks of it, he hasn’t missed a thing Mrs. Markson has given us, and that’s practically an impossible feat considering her race-car pace of delivering information.
I spot Fletcher’s black Nike slides crossing the doorway and return his notes to the original page and place the notebook carefully back onto his desk. I have to be really smart about this development, because in Fletcher Scott’s eyes, I’m the girl who can’t answer the most simple Civics questions, who skips note-taking to write to-do lists that scream ditzy blonde cheerleader, and only brings one pen to class (I have five today). I’m not exactly study-partner-of-the-year material. This could be a problem. But it’s nothing a little charm and genuine kindness won’t solve. That and finding out what it is Fletcher Scott wants as much as I want to pass this class.
No, I need to pass this class. I will pass this class. And so will Jamie. If I can pull off an A in Civics, then my GPA will be a 3.2. It’s not the 3.6 average for UCF incoming freshmen, but it’s better than 3.1.
Fletcher slides back into his seat, and I spin around and straddle mine. “Hey, Fletch.”
The nod he gives me screams dismissal, and let’s be honest, I’m not someone who gets that kind of nod too often, so it’s a little disheartening. “I take it you’re doing all the ‘optional’ summer varsity workouts?”
I glance at his chest. Varsity hockey players practically live in their JFH spirit wear (most of which they get for free from the boosters). But Fletcher is wearing a T-shirt that says No, I will not fix your computer.
“Yep.” He keeps his eyes down and flips a page in his notebook, leaving a clean sheet on top.
“How was practice this morning?”
“Fine.” Fletcher lifts his head, eyeing me cautiously—this reaction isn’t unjustified. I’ve seen plenty of popular kids pull some pretty shitty stuff with the, uh, less-popular kids. “How was tumbling last night?”
My cheeks warm at the reminder of my stupid to-do list. He’s trying to force me to turn around. What’s his deal? I plaster on a grin and sit up straighter. “It was killer, actually. I’m working on a back full. Do you know what a back full is?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s a layout back flip, and while you’re upside down, you add a full twist. I only got my layout about six months ago, and one of my coaches—Andrea—is like hard core, and she says you gotta have a layout for a whole year before twisting. And then there’s Jonas who’s like, go for it. Just don’t break your neck.”
“Was it Andrea or Jonas last night?”
I’m caught off guard by the intense way he’s listening now. It makes me immediately self-conscious of all the words I’m choosing. I dig my fingernail into the wooden chair I’m sitting in, tracing a pattern. My knee bounces up and down. “It was Andrea, and she had me doing all this awesome strength training, and by awesome, I mean terrible. Terrible today, anyway. My abs are screaming at me.”
Okay, Haley, enough about you. Focus on him.
“So, hockey,” I say, shifting subjects. “It’s going well? Are you excited for a full season on varsity? It really is a different world.”
He stares blankly at me. I take notice of his stylishly messy dark hair. He’s got nice skin, too. “I didn’t realize you played varsity hockey.”
“I don’t, but I’ve spent plenty of time on the bus with the team. Talk about needing a reality check. It’s like, how many people can we crown king of the world at the same time?”
Fletcher cracks a smile and then smooths it out before I can react. “What do you want, Haley? Is this your attempt at an apology for the Cheerios? If so, I accept. Let’s both move on.”
I still don’t believe him about the Cheerios, but now’s not the time for that debate. “I don’t want anything.” Not yet anyway. “Just making conversation. I was really impressed with your knowledge of last night’s reading. She nailed you with a tough question.”
Being part of the Juniper Falls Women’s League has taught me to suck up better than anyone else.
“Right.” Fletcher scratches the back of his head, his eyes darting around like he’s debating something. “I, uh…I studied.”
“I can tell.”
“I mean…” He folds his arms, gripping his biceps. “I studied with my cousin. Cole. You know Cole, right?”
My forehead wrinkles. “He’s not in this class, is he?”
If so, shouldn’t he be learning from inside the room?
“No, but he’s a planner. Likes to think ahead and prepare…” He focuses on something over my shoulder, and it almost looks painful when he adds, “You’d like him. You guys should hang out sometime.”
“You want me to hang out with your cousin?” This conversation has taken an odd turn. To keep my hands busy, I reach in my bag and retrieve a granola bar.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” Fletcher says, his gaze now hyper focused on the granola bar I’m about to take a bite of. “It was just a suggestion.”
Okay, someone is grouchy today. Maybe he’s hungry. I hold the bar out to him. “Want some?”
He actually leans back, away from it. I roll my eyes. “I’ve got another one in my bag if you’re afraid of girl cooties.” I bend over and grab another Kashi bar, tossing it onto Fletcher’s desk.
His eyes widen. “No thanks. And can you please not eat over my desk?”
Jesus. This guy really does not like me. I look down at the desk, and to Fletcher’s credit, there are a few crumbs. Oops. I use my hand to brush them away. “Sorry. I’m such a—”
My voice cuts off when Mrs. Markson comes up behind me and snatches the granola bar right from my hands. “No food in class, Haley!”
My mouth falls open. I look at her over my shoulder, and I’m about to protest her food stealing, but she’s staring at Fletcher. “Do you need to leave?”
I look back at him, and his face is flushed. He drops his eyes, and then in the lowest voice possible, he says, “Yeah, I have that appointment. Thanks for reminding me.”
Okay, maybe she was behind me because she had been in the back of the room to remind Fletcher that he needed to leave. I didn’t think absences were excused in summer school. Maybe he’s in therapy. That would explain a lot; he needs an attitude adjustment. I mean, it’s summer, we’re gonna be seniors in the fall, so why the moodiness? Although, this could be his normal disposition. Guess I really wouldn’t know otherwise.
Fletcher is up out of his seat in less than two seconds, his books tucked under his arm. He heads out the door before I can say a charming good-bye or anything at all. Obviously, becoming study buddies isn’t something we’re going to achieve in one day.
Mrs. Markson watches him leave, and then she hands me back my Kashi bar. “I mean it, Haley. No food.” Her voice rises, and she addresses the entire class. “That goes for everyone. Five points off to anyone who breaks that rule.”
There’s a grumble going through the class, but most didn’t seem to notice Fletcher’s departure. Only the fact that I reminded our teacher to remind us of this super-important no-food rule.
After that fiasco is over, Mrs. Markson returns to teaching and passes around handouts for our Constitution projects—an assignment we’ll need a partner for.
The twenty pages of meticulous notes flash in my mind. Bad attitude or not, Fletcher Scott is going to be my partner. I just need to create a plan of action. I need to do something special to make sure he knows that I’m the one.
Okay, not that one. Finding that one is on my summer to-don’t list.