How to Steal a Happy Ending

•three• A Streetcar Named-never going to happen

~~~present day, Senior year~~~

I'm a good student, I really am. I study (cram) for tests, I do all my homework on time (most of the time), I get good (enough) grades, and I always, always pay attention in class. Well, except today.

But that was definitely not my fault. I mean, who in their right minds could pay attention to a forty-five minute drone about effect vs affect, when there were greater things afoot. Like the fact something juicy was going on between Nate and Katie, but I had no clue what. Me. His childhood friend, and longtime partner in crime. And the worst part was that James knew instead.

In conclusion, he was the cause of my inattentiveness. He's the devil in accounts that gets his fun kicks out of jamming the highway of my academic dreams with wads of paper and gum. I let out a melodramatic sigh to accentuate the inner monologue I had going.

"Did you want something?" I snapped out of my mind trip, and turned my attention to the kid whose desk I was standing at.

"Hey Timothy," I put on what I thought was a sweet as sugar smile, "I had this terrible headache all through class, and I thought I'd ask if I could borrow your book. You know, to copy notes."

He narrowed his bespectacled eyes, and glared at me like I'd just asked him for a lion's share in his inheritance.

Everyone knows Tim always has the best notes. Problem is- he knows it too. Over the years, he's turned from the cute, geeky kid that gave every sleep-deprived student under the sun free photocopies of his neat, meticulous notes into the King Midas of notebook swapping. I "absentmindedly" twirled a strand of my hair, "I promise I'll take good care of it."

A look of distaste crossed his features. "Why'd you have a headache?" I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off before I could even begin, "Let me guess- hangover?"

"No." I snapped, "I didn't even drink yesterday." Who throws parties on Tuesdays? He gave me a sarcastic sure and got up to leave.  "Oh come on, wait!" I took a deep breath, "Look, I forgot to wear my contacts today and I couldn't see a thing. Like, seriously, I have 3.5"

He turned to face me, "You have glasses?"

I nodded sincerely, "Please don't tell anyone. It'd be so embarrassing. I look like an old cat lady when I wear them." Dear Timothy seemed to be softening up, so I threw in a teary eyed double-blink.

"Alright, but just this once. I'll slip it into your locker on my way to the lab. I don't want people to think I'm still lending. We'll end this conversation here to avoid suspicion." Oh okay, should we also assign each other codenames, and maybe throw in a couple of walkie-talkies as well. Crazed note-hog...

I gave his arm a barely there squeeze, "Thank you soo much Tim. You're like- the best." For good measure, I even pretended to bump into the wall on my way out.

Once I was in the hallway, I made a beeline for my locker. In the movies, when the newbie is struggling with her locker, a cool older kid walks by, gives it a single bang and voila! It swings open. What I would give for one of those. Unfortunately, I'm a senior. Ergo- I'm supposed to have already learnt 'Locker Science'. I gave it a couple of well-placed kicks and curses before heading to my next class sans notebook.

High school lockers and I are like ketchup and waffles; as in, we don't go well together. In freshman year, I got the one that smelled like moldy bread and overused gym socks. So I asked the janitor for another one. Apparently, that sort of thing was equal to a personal affront in the Student-Custodian code of conduct, because he gave me one that was so dented, it didn't even open. I'd have pitied the kid that was probably slammed into it if I wasn't too busy pitying myself.