Worth the Trouble ✓

30 | bad reputation

I HEAR THE MONARCHY THROWN around in conversation about ten times before I realise that they're talking about me. Or Brittany. The five of us.

The nickname existed ever since the carwash competition Carsonville hosts annually, when her so-titled team won the prize for washing the most cars: a brand new one for themselves. But since I never indulged in pointless gossip, I never realised who the codename referred to. Now I know.

This is the third year that the Monarchy is entering the carwash, and it seems a shoo-in for the winner. In freshman year, Brittany got Madison's older brother to be the team leader on paper because she wasn't old enough to be given a whole car, even though she was the one that walked away with the Commodore. In sophomore year, the prize—a shiny black Jeep—went to Reece. This year, there's a motorcycle that has Derek's name on it.

And, it turns out, none of us works to win it.

I just asked Brittany what time we should meet up tomorrow for the car wash, and she levels an amused expression my way, glossy lips stretching but not parting. "No, Terry. You don't have to show up tomorrow," she chuckles. "I got some teammates from lacrosse and volleyball to help me out."

My eyes narrow. One thing I know about Brittany is that her teammates aren't her friends. They get along and work well enough together to win games, but I never see her spending time with them off the court or field.

"So you'll be there tomorrow?"

"Of course," Brittany returns smoothly. "Watching over them—since they're all freshmen, bless their hearts—and making sure everyone's working hard. I'm looking forward to pitching in."

I shoulder my backpack higher on my back and move to walk to class. "So I guess I'll see you on Monday then."

"Yep," Brittany chirps. Her locker door slams shut with a reverberating clang. "Oh, wait. I do have something I wanted to ask you."

I turn around and smile accommodatingly. "What is it?"

"There's this guy—Martin—he promised he would write some essays for me and he reneged on the deal. I'm fine with letting him go after this, but he's already written the latest essay I wanted. He just won't hand it over. He's a sophomore."

Brittany shows me the social media profile of a kid, sophomore like she said, on the screen of her phone.

"And how is that my problem?"

In some ways, Brittany is exactly who I thought she was when I first met her in freshman year, and in others, she is much, much more. When it comes to that essay-writing scheme that she roped Suki into, I have never quite made up my mind. Sure, Suki was paid and claimed it was easy labour, but I can't imagine anything truly good would have to be kept secret.

It occurs to me that I was kept secret the whole time we dated, and my chest tightens anew.

"Terry," she mumbles, looking hurt. "Come on."

Brittany said she loved me last weekend.

"Not like that," she had snorted, seeing my stricken expression, nearly hanging off the couch drunk.

She dragged me to yet another party, and I had been drinking beer while she drank spirits. She was well on her way to being wasted.

"You're so moody, I love that. And you're clever, but you find that embarrassing." At the word embarrassing, she leaned over to where I slumped at the other end of the couch, and poked my cheek. "I love you," she said again, and this time the light-hearted, slightly sarcastic intention was clear.

Then she went on to say that she knew I didn't love her—or even like her, as a person—and that it was fine for her. "I'm used to it. I know I'm not what people expect. I have an ego. I'm confident in myself, and I make it known—my Japanese relatives are scared of me, I think," she said, tracing the rim of her solo cup pensively.