Boarding with the Bad Boy [COMPLETE + BONUS published edition]

THE BOARDERS: 30

Sam

I'd been surprised when Somers wasn't in the dorm when I returned after my abysmal afternoon on Sunday. The surprise had morphed into worry, then anger, as the hours passed and she never showed up. I'd thought things had gone really well that morning, that we had finally broken down some of the barriers between us. I guess, if I'm going to be a bitch about it, I may as well admit that I was feeling kinda hopeful about where things were headed. After all the weirdness with Ott, I was hoping those breakthroughs might lead to kissing. (Fine, maybe some over-the-clothes-stuff.) But Somers' side of the room had remained resolutely empty as eleven turned midnight turned one AM, and I realized she wasn't coming back to the dorm.

I almost texted her, before realizing that I'd never thought to get her number.

Now it's Thursday, and I've been resolutely ignored by my roommate for four days. And she's not the only one grating my already frayed nerves. Ott's acting like a stranger, barking laughter louder than usual and making less-than-subtle jokes about my being "pussy whipped" to his new gang of cross-country teammates. I keep my distance, but his voice echoes across the dining hall, and Molly had to stop me from marching over there more than once.

Speaking of, Molly and Weaver both seem to be quietly siding with me over the whole thing, the two of them sitting with me during lunches and carrying a conversation around my broody ass as if I'm not even there. For some reason that makes everything worse. And worse is exacerbated when Weaver slides into his seat in Calc on Thursday and greets Somers, who gives him a shy, almost grateful smile, like they share something.

The bell rings before I can say anything, but I can't let it go. I want to do something that makes her look at me like that again. And I want to know what I did that made her stop. I've spent the past three nights thinking about it, wondering if she'd decided the way I treated her before our talk Sunday outweighed any apologies I could ever make. It'd be fair if she had. Still, I wish she'd let me know. The not knowing is eating at me more than anything.

At least, that's what I tell myself. That's why I can't stop myself nudging Somers with my elbow as Mrs. Alvarez turns to the board, writing equations.

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened or is this just dead?"

Somers glares at my offending elbow, but she doesn't acknowledge me otherwise.

"Somers, please." I don't care that I sound like I'm begging, that Weaver is definitely eavesdropping, and that I'll never hear the end of it once this is over. My sudden desperation to fix this—whatever this is—is unnerving and completely unavoidable. "I'm not going to just disappear because you've decided you're angry with me for no good reason."

Mrs. Alvarez starts to talk about an upcoming exam on derivatives and Somers watches her like she's the most interesting thing in the world, the only person in the room. But I know she can hear me, because her jaw is tight and her lower lip is tucked into her teeth.

"I thought that we were okay on Sunday, and then you just went dark. I think you owe me some kind of explanation."

"Stop." Somers shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, keeping her eyes locked on Mrs. Alvarez.

"I want to know what hap—" I start, when Weaver cuts in.

"Evans, chill. I think she's made it pretty clear she doesn't want to hear from you right now."

Somers' shoulders straighten and I have to stop my jaw from dropping. I imagine I look like one of those cartoon characters in shock. But I am, truly, shocked. Where does Weaver get off busting into Somers' and my business?