How To Date A Christian Dork: A Helpful Handbook For The Datingly Impaired.

Tip 7: Don't Get The Dork Arrested

Tip 7: Don't Get The Dork Arrested

"I'm bored," declared Brett. It was Saturday, five days since that faithful Monday when he had kicked me out of his house. After he had apologized, and I had forgiven him, I had continued tutoring him. And no, we hadn't gone to that restaurant, no matter how much he had pestered me about it.

"Well, what do you want to do?" I said, looking up from the book I was reading. We had been told to read Romeo and Juliet as our English assignment, and I was nowhere near done. In fact, I was way behind schedule.

Brett pushed back the work on logarithms I had given him, and stretched. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as he whispered, "The mall. I want to go to the mall."

The mall. The place where all this commotion in my life had started. If I hadn't gone there, I would never have had strawberry milkshake spilt over me, by Brett and company. Then, I would have still had my comfort clothes, and Brett would probably never have noticed me. I probably wouldn't have even have had to tutor him, because he wouldn't have a copy of my e-diary, which I now no longer wrote in, and wouldn't have been able to blackmail me with it.

So forgive me for thinking that place was cursed.

"No," I said, burying my nose back into the book I was reading. This scene seemed far too familiar for my liking.

"Aww," he pouted, making puppy-dog eyes at me. "Pwease."

I raised an eyebrow. "No. Now finish your work."

He got up. "I'm done. We've been here for three hours, no breaks. It's Saturday, and we are teenagers. We need to have some fun."

"This is fun."

He gave me a look. "You are sixteen-not sixty. You need to get out more often!"

"I like it inside. It's safe. I'll give you a thirty minute break to go there, do whatever you want, and come back again. That way everyone's happy."

"No. I want to go with you."

"Well, I don't want to go with you."

"How can you resist all this?" he asked, gesturing to his torso.

I stared at his face, before looking back into the book. "It's really not that hard."

He groaned, before leaving the room. I looked up again as he left, relieved that he had decided to drop the topic. Five minutes later, he returned, a smug smile gracing his face.

"Kayla," he said, innocently. "There's someone on the phone for you." He handed me his phone, and I looked at his outstretched hand, suspicious, before taking it gingerly.

"Hello?"

"Kayla!" screeched a voice. Mikayla.

"Mini-me?" I said, wondering how on earth Brett had gotten hold of my little sister's number. Was I dealing with a pedophile?

"No, Darth Vader," she said sarcastically. "Of course it's me!"

"How did Brett-"

"Never mind that," she said, impatiently. "He said you wouldn't go to the mall with him. Is that true?"

"Yes. Why would-"

"Go with him. Now," demanded Mikayla. I frowned. This girl was barely five feet tall, and she thought she could order her older sister around? That wasn't how things worked.

"Mikayla, no. And seriously, how did the boy even get your number? Do I need to call Mom?"

"Stop with the overprotective sibling thing, that's Taylor's job. And Brett had my number because I gave it to him. Now, stop being such a bore, throw away the Romeo and Juliet you're reading, and go to the mall!"