How to Take the Ex Out of Ex-Boyfriend (10 page)

Nope, I wasn't wrong. I smiled even though she looked cross and miserable. Half the time the girls Dante brought home were total idiots. Like in their zest for body piercing they got carried away and accidentally pierced a few necessary parts of their brains. Charity would be good for him. “Motorcycles aren't so bad. Well, you know, if you never look down.”

Dante walked back to us with an extra bounce in his step. He smiled, folded a ripped piece of notebook paper, and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

“Did you get her signature for your petition?” Charity asked.

He handed the list back to me. “Nope. She'd already signed Wilson's, but she did give me her phone number.”

Charity shook her head and walked toward class again. I glared at Dante for her. I mean really, why would he want an underclassman who applied her makeup so it looked like she was testing paint swatches on her eyelids?

Guys. I turned my back on Dante and walked down the hallway with Charity.

“Arrivederci ragazze!”
he called after us and then laughed.

 

I didn't try to get any signatures in trig class, because I barely made it through the door as the bell rang. This caused Mr. Ragolski's snit level to rise by several degrees, and I knew I'd get in trouble if he caught me passing the petition around.

Still, I needed to come up with eight signatures for my brother—and this because I had tried to keep Dante and Charity from fighting, which goes to show you that I should mind my own business or I should try to set them up.

I wasn't sure which.

After lunch I went to Honors English. It used to be my favorite class, because reading doesn't seem like homework to me. It's more like entertainment. Well, except for Hemingway, which could be used to hypnotize lab rats into semi-conscious states.

Unfortunately, Jesse is in my English class. So is Wilson. I'd been doing my best to avoid talking to Jesse in class, except for those times when he and Wilson were loudly discussing whether I was going to eat sandal-wiches or meatloafers.

Sometimes it felt like we hadn't broken up at all, and this teasing was the same kind of flirting we used to do. At other times I wanted to grab Jesse's boots and give him a head start on eating them.

As I walked to my seat, I glanced at Jesse. He sits two rows over from me. My gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, his jawline, the curve of his lips. I wondered if he'd already asked Bridget to prom. I wondered if he'd ever kissed her. Daphne probably knew the answer to these questions, but I didn't have the heart to ask her.

Mrs. Pembroke stood by her desk talking to a couple of students. She waved one hand around explaining something. I couldn't tell what, but judging from her motions it may have had something to do with directing an orchestra or guiding a plane safely onto a tarmac.

Mrs. Pembroke is a good teacher. Whenever we discuss books, she always takes our thoughts and opinions seriously. How many teachers do that? Most have their own opinions, and the whole point of class is for them to tell you their opinion and then grade you on it.

Of course, part of Mrs. Pembroke's attitude comes from the fact that she wants to be a writer and so is looking for reader feedback. She always asks us what we liked and disliked about a story. What was our favorite part? How would we improve the plot if we could?

We're sort of like a room full of teenage consultants.

Wilson, I noticed, was busy talking to a girl in the back of the room. No doubt campaigning. I decided to be a politician myself and scooted closer to the guy who sat in the row between Jesse and me. “Hi, Bill.”

“Howdy.” He glanced at me, then returned his attention to a paper he was writing.

Bill is a nice guy, despite the fact that he'd done a lot of eye rolling whenever Jesse and I had leaned over his desk to talk to each other. Really, he was probably relieved that Jesse and I had broken up so he didn't have to be in the middle of us anymore. I smiled at him anyway. “Have you signed anyone's petition for student body president yet?”

“No. Why? Are you running?”

This, I noticed, turned Jesse's head. I pretended not to see him. Instead I gave Bill my most lilting laugh. “No, not me. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't have the courage to run against Wilson. With his popularity, money, and connections—well, hardly anyone else stands a chance. But my brother, Dante, really wants to see things change. He's tired of the same old clique running the school. Would you like to help us by signing—”

I didn't get to finish. Jesse leaned on the other side of Bill's desk. “A clique doesn't run the school. Student council does.”

“It's the popular clique,” I said. “Every day you can sit and watch them all cliquing away—”

Jesse cut me off. “They put in their own time, working hard to plan dances and fund-raisers—”

“But not memorials. They do whatever they want, and they couldn't care less about the rest of us.” I put the petition on Bill's desk. “We can send a message to the elitists at this school by voting for Dante.”

Jesse let out a grunt. “Elitists? You think Wilson is an elitist?”

“If the Prada shoewear fits, then yeah, he should wear it.”

Bill looked at the petition, then glanced at the back of the room, where Wilson and his latest conquest were laughing at something. He gulped and didn't sign. “I . . . uh, think Wilson and Dante are both great guys,” he said.

Jesse's eyes narrowed at me. “I suppose you think I'm an elitist too.”

“Well, I didn't until you totally blew off Dante.”

“I didn't blow off Dante. I started campaigning for Wilson.”

“You invited Dante's friends to Wilson's party.”

Jesse tossed up both his hands like I was the one being unreasonable. “I invited everyone I know. That's not being elitist, that's being inclusive. Besides, Dante can invite my friends to his party. I don't care.”

And I could tell he didn't. His face registered only disbelief at my frustration. This was his idea of good sportsmanship? “Dante might have been able to invite your friends if Wilson hadn't planned his party at the exact same time Dante was throwing his party. Are you going to defend Wilson about that too?”

Jesse shrugged. “That's just normal politics. It's like contact sports. When you play football, you gotta expect you're going to be tackled a few times.”

That was it? That was how he justified everything? Because it was okay to slam people to the ground in football?

He must have seen the incredulity on my face, because he tried to explain further. “Guys will fight to the death during a game, but after it's over, we're all friends again.”

Men and their sports tactics. If he could claim that sort of thing as fair play, then I could just as easily pull out a few feminine wiles to help my cause. I shoved the petition closer to Bill and smiled at him, trying to muster as much charm as I could. I softened my voice and tilted my head so my hair cascaded off one shoulder. “I'd really appreciate your support.”

Jesse frowned at me. He knew what I was up to. “Maybe Bill wants to keep his support to himself.”

“I . . . um . . .” Bill said.

I cast a glare at Jesse. “Is this another one of your attempts to scare guys away from me?”

Jesse leaned back in his seat. “Not at all. If I was trying to scare him away from you, I would have said something like, ‘Hey Bill, don't talk to Giovanna, and if you ever ask her out I'll make your life never-ending misery.' ” Jesse smiled over at me. “And I clearly never said that.”

I don't understand men. I mean, it would be one thing if Jesse was trying to make amends and win me back or something. But he hadn't done that. He'd never called or tried to talk to me. It was like this was all a game to him. I'd dumped him in front of everybody, so he was getting back at me by doing everything he could to ensure no one else asked me out.

I gave my pencil to Bill even though he already had one sitting on his desk. “Don't let him intimidate you. He's just one of the elitists whose rule is about to end.”

Jesse looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “Come on, Gi. You can't call me an elitist. How many elitists do you know who wear cowboy boots and drive a motorcycle?”

“One,” I said.

Bill pulled the petition toward him. “Here. I'll sign. No need for more discussion.” His hand scurried across the paper. “I'm signing it.”

Jesse shook his head at me again. “If you think my friends are elitists, you don't know them very well.”

I kept my voice light, refusing to let any bitterness seep through. “Well, that might be true. After all, none of them ever spoke to me, so it was hard to get to know them.”

Bill put both his hands down on his desk and let out a sigh. He glanced first at Jesse, then me. “And I thought you two were bad when you were dating. I'm never going to have a minute's peace in this class. I nearly took World History this period, but no, everyone said to pass the English AP test I needed Honors Lit.”

I took my pencil and the petition from Bill's desk. “That reminds me, Bill. You're invited to a party at my house. This Saturday at seven thirty. You can bring a friend if you want.”

Bill looked at me like I was crazy, which I supposed meant I wouldn't have to add him to the party head count.

Luckily, I didn't have to say anything else, because Mrs. Pembroke strode in front of the room. “Settle down, class. It's time to get started, but first I wanted to read something to you.”

I turned around in my desk and looked at her. I held my pencil to my notebook paper in case I had to take notes, but I pressed down so hard the lead snapped off. Which is probably a sign that your ex-boyfriend has stressed you out.

Mrs. Pembroke read to the class from a piece of paper she held, which turned out to be her latest rejection letter for a mystery novel she'd written. My mind wouldn't focus on her words though. It was still back on the election. “Dear Ms. Pembroke,” she read, “thank you for submitting your manuscript for our consideration . . .”

How could we win when we were struggling just to get Dante's name on the ballot? I felt tears threatening to appear, which is really not something you want to happen at the beginning of English, especially when your ex-boyfriend is sitting two rows over.

“We regret to inform you that your story does not fit our current publishing needs . . .”

Wilson was impossible to beat. Why was I even trying?

“We wish you the best in your publishing endeavors . . .”

The party on Saturday would be a flop, and Dante would be so hurt. A lot of times you go through life thinking you have friends and people like you. Maybe those assumptions should never be put to the test.

And then Mrs. Pembroke's words cut through my thoughts. She shook the piece of paper she held in her hand. “Sometimes I feel like quitting, but I'm not going to. What kind of teacher would I be if I taught you to quit just because you received a rejection letter or two—or in my case twenty-eight, but who's counting?” She forced a laugh and picked up the stapler from off her desk. “Do you know what I'm going to do instead? I'm taking all of my rejection letters and putting them on the classroom bulletin board. Then every time we see them it will remind us that it takes hard work and a lot of revision to get what you want in life.”

She strode to the bulletin board, stapled the letter in the middle, then turned around and smiled at us. “Because I know that one day I'll staple an acceptance letter right up here.”

Sometimes I wondered about the sanity of my teachers, and I have to say that this was one of those times. I mean, the woman had smiled at her rejection letter. That couldn't be normal.

Then she looked at me. “We should never give up.”

For a moment I didn't breathe. Somehow Mrs. Pembroke not only knew about the election, but she'd read my mind and understood how I wanted to quit. All this was a message to me, telling me to believe in Dante's chances, and even to believe in the Bickham High student body.

Then her gaze moved on, and I knew I had imagined it all. Still, I tucked the petition into my notebook, more determined than ever to get our last seven names.

 

Before school ended I must have asked every single person in my classes to sign Dante's petition. Which is really saying something, since the last thing I wanted to do was get sent to detention again. By the time the last bell rang, I'd done it. Which ought to show Jesse—I mean, Wilson—something.

Although, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure how much Wilson actually paid attention. He flirted with Lorrel Stock—head of the swim team—through English, switched to Leslie Hanchet—tennis star—during Spanish class, and I saw him walking out of the school with Katheryne Blair—captain of the volleyball team. I guess you could say Wilson was well rounded when it came to sports.

I rode home from school with Dante. I used to ride home with Jesse, which is sort of the same, motorcycle-wise, but not at all the same otherwise.

Right after Dante dropped me off, he went to pick up Skipper from the babysitter's. She has morning kindergarten, then stays with a lady a few streets over until Dante and I get home from school. He walks, by the way. Skipper's not allowed anywhere near a motorcycle. We watch her (which usually means I watch her) until Gabby and Dad get home from work.

While I rummaged through the fridge looking for something to eat, the doorbell rang. I answered it without thinking. Jesse stood on my doorstep.

Chapter
8