Chapter Twenty-Five
133 days until graduation
“Remember to subtract one from the degree.” I point toward Briar’s worksheet. “Calculus is all about derivatives, so if you can’t find those, then it’s something we need to work on now.”
Briar erases the work she’s already done while I hop down from my barstool to grab a water bottle.
Gwen is over at the Callaghan house to study with Mae, leaving me an empty house most days after school. Which in turn, has made this my routine every day after school for the past few weeks: Briar comes over to work on AP Calc homework and I supervise after getting my own done in half the time.
“Do you want water?” I ask her as I open the fridge.
“Sure,” she says. Without looking at her, I can tell she’s trying to focus.
I turn, seeing her attempt to peek at my worksheet sitting next to her. “You’re never going to learn that way,” I advise.
She flips my paper back over, leaving the answers facing the counter. “I was checking to see if I was right.”
“I’ll tell you.” I pull her paper across the island. “Your derivatives are better, but you have to use chain rule here, not power rule.”
She drops her pencil, grabbing the water bottle off the counter. “If I’m hopeless, you can tell me now.”
“You’re not hopeless.” I pick her pencil up, holding it back out to her. “You’re just not where you want to be yet, and that’s okay.”
“This is so frustrating.” She sighs, putting her head in her hands as she stares down at the homework.
“Junior year, I struggled a lot in AP World, and that was really hard for me because I was so used to doing well.” I give an attempt to relate. “I know it might make you feel stupid now, but the fact that you’re trying this hard shows how much you want to improve, and that type of determination will get you places; it already has.”
“You struggled and still pulled through with an A. I’m struggling and I’m barely managing a B,” she says, as if to say we are not the same.
“I’m commending your work ethic, not your grades. Most of the time, those two things are not synonymous.”
Briar and I are a lot alike, and while I may be—on paper—smarter than her, her drive is the same as mine.
There are a few things that set us apart though, beyond her love of lacrosse. Such as her ability to make friends, and connect with people on a deeper level.
I’ve come to realize that beyond tutoring, Briar has tried to befriend me along the way. She usually stays over even after we’ve done our homework, and while I used to find it odd, I now can see another way she differs from me: she actually tries to make friends, instead of just hanging on to the ones that fall in her lap.
“For a long time, I felt like my academics were all I had. I didn’t play sports, I wasn’t good at any of the hobbies I tried, and the only thing I was good at was school.” I grab her paper, rewriting the equation she has been continually struggling with. “You have lacrosse, and from what I hear, you’re pretty damn good at it.”
“That doesn’t mean I should try less at school.” Briar rolls her eyes as if I’m insinuating that she should give up.
“If I was telling you that, you wouldn’t be sitting in my kitchen right now,” I tell her bluntly. “What I am saying is that you don’t have to be the best at everything.”
Briar has other things to back her up, which is something I’ve never had. That’s why I’ve relied on academics so heavily. If I had something comparable to lacrosse, I probably wouldn’t be where I am today.
And maybe that makes her smarter than me.
“Thanks, Valley,” Briar says.
“Valley?” I ask.
“Short for Valedictorian.” She smiles brightly.
I’ve never seen someone who can show all their teeth while smiling, but Briar comes pretty close.
I laugh lightly. “Finish the worksheet.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” She asks me, pointing toward the clock on the stove with her pencil.
“Oh my God,” I groan. “How is it already seven o”clock?”
“Come on.” Briar stands from the barstool she was sitting in. “I’ll help you get ready.”
I nod, heading toward the stairs and leading her up to my room.
Winnie, Eloise, and I are meeting at Logan’s house for Jameson’s birthday party.
“Don’t you and Jameson Beaumont hate each other?” Briar breaks me out of my thoughts as we stand in my closet.
“We’re over it,” I answer simply.
My answer was far too simple for Briar’s liking, though. “We’re over it’ as in you’re ignoring it, or ‘we’re over it’ as in you’re banging?”
My shock almost launches me backward into my coat rack. “Neither,” I emphasize.
“So, what? Nothing is going on between you and the hot genius?”
“I am also a genius, so his brain capacity doesn’t necessarily elicit an abundance of R rated thoughts,” I tell her matter-of-factly
“Not even M rated ones?” She sounds like she’s disappointed.
“Trust me, ninety percent of my thoughts about Jameson are rated E for everyone.” I pause, seeing the glimmer of hope for the other ten percent. “Any other thoughts I have of him probably include a weapon.”
Briar pulls a blouse off its hanger, tossing it at my chest. “You’re no fun.”
“Get used to it, Hart.” I unwind the shirt, realizing it’s the exact one I have been in my closet looking for. I look up at Briar with a confused expression, feeling as if she read my mind.
All she does is smile.
A little while after Winnie, Eloise, and I got to Jameson’s birthday party, Logan found us within the crowd. Soon after that, Logan and I somehow ended up alone in the kitchen to get drinks.
I’m not a partier, mostly because I spend most of my time with Winnie, and she’s under a contract with her ballet studio that prohibits dangerous activities. She didn’t want to party out of fear of getting hurt and breaking her contract, and I didn’t want to party because it wouldn’t be with Winnie.
Taking my school workload into consideration, parties have never been at the top of my priorities list.
We enter the kitchen. Logan grabs one of the red solo cups and labels it with a marker before he makes me a drink with the unopened bottles from the fridge.
“You didn’t have to open those when there are already open ones out,” I tell him, even though I’m secretly grateful he did.
Logan shrugs. “There is a one hundred percent chance people have put their mouths on the already-opened bottles, and I don’t want you to be grossed out.”
“Thank you.”
“Here.” He hands me the solo cup containing his finished product. “Now, go have fun. Please.”
I look around the party. Everyone is drinking and dancing to the loud music. People are congregating too close for my liking, and in layman’s terms, this is just so far from my scene that I have no clue what to do.
Logan walks out of the kitchen, but I quickly reach out to grab his arm.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He turns back to face me, his arm falling from my grasp. “I’m going to find Jameson. It is his birthday, after all.”
“What did you get him?”
Logan is known in our friend group as being the best gift giver. Not only because he has the money to buy dream gifts but also because he pays attention.He’s sweet like that. He remembers things people tell him, or point out to him, and I know it makes him feel good to show that he cares.
Last year for my birthday, Logan got me a Chanel purse I had been eying for months. It was what most of my search history comprised, and I had been debating buying it for myself for quite some time.
Then, I opened it on my birthday, and when I looked up from the bag in my hands with tears welling in my eyes, Logan was grinning from ear to ear.
“He didn’t want anything super big, but I did get him this super cool painting he was talking about when we visited the gallery a few weeks ago,” he responds, not seeming overly impressed with himself. “Plus, I threw him this party.”
“You two went to the art gallery?” He never mentioned that.
“Yeah, one closer to Hartford, the painting I got him was one that was on auction there. Anyway,” Logan says. “Do you want to come with me?”
“To go find Jameson?” He has to be kidding.
“I know you don’t want to be around all of us right now, but Jameson had nothing to do with you not knowing about the party.” Logan tries to convince me.
He’s right; Jameson has done nothing wrong in this situation, and the least I can do after all our bickering is wish him a happy birthday.
I reluctantly agree. “Okay.”
“Great.” Logan makes his way through the masses of people. “The last place I saw him was out by the firepit.”
The sliding glass door has been left open, making it easier for people to get in and out of the house while also allowing for some ventilation.
“Jameson!” Logan calls out before I even see him. I see a head turn, and I know it’s him.
He’s the only one wearing the large gold sash that says, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY.”
It’s kind of a dead giveaway, even if I didn’t already know what he looks like.
I take in his outfit beyond the sash as we approach him. He’s wearing an all-black button down and black slacks. The button down’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, leaving his watch visible. No party hat, though.
I’ve always found Jameson attractive, because it’s an obvious fact, but the slightest amount of alcohol in my system makes the sight of him even more mesmerizing.
He heads toward us, and I’m not even sure if he’s noticed I’m standing here.
“How are you liking the party?” Logan asks. By the look of the almost empty solo cup in his hand, it looks like he’s having a surprisingly good time.
“I’ve only become acquainted with this cup,” Jameson responds with a lighthearted laugh before making eye contact with me. He doesn’t look annoyed or upset by my presence, so I take that as a win.
I could also be making it up in my head, considering I feel dizzy when I look at him.
“Happy Birthday, Jameson.” I tell him with a small smile.
He touches my shoulder as he says, “Thank you, Genevieve.”
My upper extremities now feel as if they are on fire, and I can’t deny the heightened effect Jameson has on me when he’s slightly intoxicated.
I’m barely able to mutter, “You’re welcome.”
Jameson’s not dumb enough to get drunk, but I applaud him for being able to enjoy himself by having a couple drinks. Usually, that is something I am incapable of. He’s much sweeter to me when he’s had a bit to drink, and in turn, it makes me much more attracted to him.
Because, while I would love the banter we share if it weren’t out of spite, I really wish Jameson and I could always be like this with each other.
“What’s it feel like to be eighteen?” Logan asks jokingly.
“Adulthood is already hard.” The ever-slight slur of his voice makes him sound ironically childish.
“I’m sure.” Logan laughs, I stay quiet. “Have you been inside yet? There’s a lot of people here.”
“Yeah, there’s been people coming in and out all night,” Jameson answers. “If I’m being honest, I don’t know at least half of them.”
Sometimes it’s hard to remember these are the people Logan and I grew up with, and that Jameson isn’t as familiar with them as we are.
“Who wants to play beer pong?” Someone suddenly bellows from inside the house. “Callaghan, I know you want to, come be my partner!”
Logan looks back, smiling when he realizes it was Luke talking to him. “Of course I do!” Then, he looks back at us. “Come on, you two can be a team.”
My eyes widen, and before I can protest, Jameson is already walking off with Logan, saying something about how he and I are going to kick Logan and Luke’s asses.
Logan knew what he was doing, suggesting Jameson and I should be beer pong partners. He’s wanted us to get along since we met, and he doesn’t understand how that’s just not possible.
“I hate beer.” I grimace, hoping Logan will let me off the hook.
But neither Logan nor Jameson respond to my complaint.
“I’ve never played.” I tell Logan once we’re in the house. “I could be terrible.”
“The point is not to be good. Everybody’s terrible at beer pong,” he responds. “And the people who are goodat beer pong should be concerned about their alcohol intake.”
He sets a ping-pong ball in my hand. “You and Jameson are on this side of the table, Luke and I will be on the other.”
“I understand the general concept,” I snide as he makes his way toward his designated side of the table.
Jameson stands next to me, looking at the table of cups like he is surveying the best angle to throw the ball.
I can tell he plans to win.
“Do you want to go first?” I ask. It’s not entirely out of kindness, more so because he looks worlds more prepared than I am.
“No, you go ahead.” I don’t find his response abnormal until he adds, “I trust you.”