Silently, without taking my eyes off of hers, I shrug off my backpack and reach inside, then hand her my crinkled-up test. She takes it, hesitantly tearing her gaze away from mine to look at my grade. I watch as a dozen emotions scroll across her face, her expression morphing from shock, to disbelief, to excitement, finally landing on confusion.
“Bronx, you got eighty-nine percent! That’s amazing!” she exclaims excitedly, showing me my score, as if I misunderstood.
“Yeah, an eighty-nine,” I reiterate bitterly. “Which means I’m one percent—just one fucking percent—off.”
Wow, who would have thought six months ago I would be the type to get this upset if I didn’t get the grade I wanted. Half the time I didn’t even care if I passed or failed. As long as I could keep my grades afloat, high enough to play football, that was all I cared about.
And to miss the mark by 1 percent. One fucking percent. A part of me thinks I would be less mad if I’d absolutely failed.
Her face falls in realization, and she stares back down at my paper, as if the grade will somehow magically change. She quickly flips through my test, scanning my answers. “You still did really well,” she says, trying to be encouraging, but I see the disappointment on her face. It kind of surprises me.
“Yeah, but I still came up short,” I mutter.
She frowns. “I’m really proud of you, though. This is an amazing score.”
I shrug one shoulder, still disappointed and angry at myself.
Olivia lets out a sigh, her eyes drifting down to my paper and back up at me. “Look, what if I make you a deal?”
I look at her skeptically. “What kind of deal?”
“If you can tell me why you got the answers wrong and correct them during our next study session, I’ll go to The Library with you,” she offers.
“Seriously?” I ask, my mood instantly lifting.
She gives me a timid smile. “Yes.”
I break into a full grin. She basically just agreed to go with me even though I didn’t quite get the grade she required.
“Admit it, Finch,” I drawl teasingly, slinging my arm around her shoulders and steering her down the hallway, “you wanted to go with me all along.”
“Hardly,” she mutters, but I can tell she’s biting back a smile.
“So I’m thinking heels. The sexy, strappy kind.”
“You’re pushing it,” she warns in a singsong voice.
“Miniskirt?” I press teasingly.
She lets out an exasperated groan. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Twenty-one
Sabotage
I lean against the brick exterior of The Library, watching my breath mingle with the cold November air. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, I observe all the cars coming and going, anxiously waiting for Olivia’s car to pull into the parking lot.
I check my watch: 7:54 p.m. I told her to be here around eight.
Six more minutes.
Knowing Olivia, she’s probably going to arrive at eight on the dot, not wanting to spend any more time here than she has to or scared that she’ll beat me here and have to sit in her car awkwardly waiting for me.
Originally, I wanted to pick her up from her house and drive here together, but she refused. She wanted to drive herself, and as much as I hate it, I have to give her props. She’s a smart girl; I should have known she’d come up with a foolproof escape plan in case things go south. Not that I plan on letting them.
At 7:58 p.m. I finally spot her little white Mazda turn into the parking lot and find the closest spot available. I jog up to her car then open the door for her.
“Hey, Finch,” I greet her, suddenly riddled with excitement and anticipation.
