Part 4 (1/2)

”Impossible.” I blink back. ”You-you have no idea what you're asking me. I'm really busy,” I beg, hoping she will believe this is all about me-not her. ”I work another job-at the sports complex, and I take care of my grandmother. No. Too complicated.”

I stand and pace the length of the room re-reading the items on her list. Even if I did agree, how would I be able to hide my ident.i.ty from her pit-bull parents? If they ever found out they'd skewer me. h.e.l.l...I have to admit...she's right. It's a good idea. Could we pull it off if she doesn't use my real name? I rake my hands through my hair. ”No. No. It's insane. It's impossible.”

I look back. She's crossed her arms and is tapping her ugly shoe on the carpet.

”You're doing it again,” she says.

”What?”

”You're turning all pasty and greenish. And you're muttering to yourself again. Can't you at least hide your complete aversion to me? A few more minutes in your company and I might as well go tie myself to a train track.”

”Don't say that. Don't even joke about it! The idea of ten weeks with a single, locked-down girlfriend-even the fake kind-gives me all over body hives. Sue me for making a face about that. I don't think you've thought any of this through. It would involve all of our friends, parents-even if we don't use my real name-text messaging, emails-and a lot of time. Time is something I don't have to burn. Plus, it would kill the variety of...of...yeah...girl fun in my summer,” I imply, wondering if she'll call my bluff. The only real summer varieties I score are the extra odd jobs I pick up at the rink.

She turns bright red and I have to hide my smile.

”Disgusting,” she snorts and reverts back to rubbing her temples. ”But, if I can't convince you, then maybe you could put in a good word with one of your friends? One who isn't such a boy wh.o.r.e like you?”

”What?” I gasp. Amazed. She's. .h.i.t me in the gut all over again. ”If...if I say no, you-you-mean to ask someone else? Are you completely mental?”

”I thought we'd covered that topic. Are you completely slow? YES. I'm mental. This is why I have a list called *how to be normal'.”

My heart twists because I think she truly believes that. ”You'll be destroyed by gossip. Approaching anyone else would be social suicide. You can not tell anyone else this plan!”

She grimaces. ”Would you stop yelling? My head split in half five minutes ago. No need to drain out what's left. Besides, I'm way beyond worrying about gossip that's applied to me. I'm sure I could find someone who would take $8K to pretend date me this summer.”

When I meet her gaze, I can tell she's in major pain but I'm almost sure it's got nothing to do with the b.u.mp on her head like she's been swearing.

I take in a deep breath, and slowly return to sit beside her on the couch. ”Why don't you just try to get a boyfriend the usual way? You know...meet people. Talk. Be nice? Save your money,” I whisper.

”I don't... I can't...” She whispers back, not meeting my gaze. ”I'm not like that. You wouldn't understand.”

But I do understand. And I hate that I do.

Before she can say more, Mr. Foley is back in the room. ”Okay! Problem solved. Who's first?” He nods at me. ”Ready, Mr. Porter? I can't wait to see your product ideas.”

”Ready.” I hand Jess the list and stand.

I make the mistake of giving her one last glance. I sort of expect to see her about to cry, but she surprises me again. Her expression has turned defiant, challenging. I'm pretty sure she's shooting me a bright blue, F-U with those big, closed-off eyes.

My hockey-puck samples clump against my back when I sling my pack over one shoulder. I can hardly breathe.

I can't walk away from Jess now that she's asked me for help directly.

Plus, I'm well aware my bag is full of c.r.a.p. If it comes down to product samples, she's going to win. She believes I'm about to steal the interns.h.i.+p from her, but after seeing those b.u.mper stickers I know I'm the long shot. As soon as Mr. Foley compares my half-page resume boasting a lame a.s.sistant-coach job plus snack-bar expertise to what Jess has typed on hers, I'm dead.

As I move to follow Mr. Foley, she pulls out her b.u.mper stickers.

She flashes me the top ones: Boys in Books are Better...Boys in Books are Better.

c.r.a.p! It's partly my fault Jess Jordan believes that d.a.m.n b.u.mper sticker is true.

”Sir,” I call out to Mr. Foley before I can change my mind. ”How about you interview us together.”

Jess's mask slips. She meets my gaze and her eyes are so alight with hope, relief and trust that I'm sure I've done the right thing.

But then she shoots out of her seat and stands too close to me. ”Do you mean it?” she whispers.

I nod, and she smiles. I'm overcome with thoughts of cinnamon-suns.h.i.+ne and how much I like this very real smile-so different than the ones she'd been faking all morning.

”Thanks.” She latches on to my arm as though she's scared to let go. ”This is going to be awesome. You won't be sorry.”

I want to shout: I'm already sorry. I've been sorry for three years!

Instead I smile and say, ”Yeah. We'll work out details at school. Monday.”

She nods again. Her small hand trembles against my arm. Her fingers seem really fragile-with nails that have been chewed down to nothing.

Maybe this is absolute wrong thing to do. c.r.a.p. c.r.a.p. And c.r.a.p! What have I agreed to?

It's not like I can take it back now. She'd told me she was going to hire someone else if I didn't sign on. I couldn't let that happen. And dammit I need this job.

I vow to just watch over her. Make sure she's okay. Make sure she doesn't get hurt any more, even by herself and her strange ideas. h.e.l.l, I've been watching over Jess Jordan for three years in secret already. She doesn't remember me, so what harm can come from trying to be her friend?

”What's the idea?” Mr. Foley asks, retracing his steps down the hall.

Jess pipes in, ”If you agree, Mr. Foley, we have a way you could hire us both, but only pay one salary.”

Mr. Foley raises his salt-and-pepper brows high above his gla.s.ses and smiles. ”I'm listening.”

Chapter Five.

Jess Footsteps on the hall floorboards bring me fully awake and thankfully they stop my nightmare. My heart's racing. I'm covered in sweat but hopefully I can recover myself in time.

The clock blinks 2AM from the far side of the room as the footsteps draw nearer.

As happy as I am my torture has been derailed, my heart fills with dread. If someone's prowling this side of the house past midnight, I must have just ruined months of hard work by crying out in my sleep.

My fault for risking it, but the bed had looked so comfortable. I'd only meant to stretch out for a minute, but I'd been so tired after the interview I must have drifted off.

I bite my lip and hold quiet. I can tell by the pace that the person lurking is my mom. She's not going to stop until she checks on me. I force my sleep-heavy limbs to move off the bed. Comforter in tow, I make a break for the desk and wipe the tears from my cheeks and eyes while I quickly run a hand over my keyboard. The laptop surges to life just in time, illuminating the far corner of the room as she opens the door without even knocking.

”You okay?” she asks, voice tight. Worried. Waiting for me to admit to the nightmare.

”All good,” I say, using a cheerful tone. I need to play this perfectly or I'm toast. I angle the monitor light away from my body and burrow into the comforter before pretending to type. When Mom doesn't leave, I'm forced to look up. Hopefully my serene expression is locked in place, but there are no guarantees. Not after the nightmare.