but this is not my test. “You are now looking at an unsigned, penniless musician.” Zayd laughs and reaches up to twist his gelled hair into little spikes.
I'm so distracted by the test, and the essay underneath it which also has my name but not my words, that it takes me a moment to register what he’s just said. I look up.
“They don't want you to, like, give a statement or something?” I ask. Zayd gives me this wry little smirk, like he could care less. It's quite obvious he cares a whole hell of a lot.
He ignores my question, brushing it aside with a wave of his hand.
“Look, you’re not going to catch Tristan with his hands in the cookie jar.” Zayd reaches out to tap the papers in my hand, and our fingers brush together. Heat leaps from his skin to mine, and we both shiver. It's not fair. It's not fair that I have chemistry with an asshole like Zayd Kaiser. “That's a test with a score of about …” Zayd pauses to think for a minute. “Sixty-five percent? In the essay, that's a copy of Gena Whitley's essay from last year. Plagiarism and all that.”
“Why do these things have my name on them?” I ask, feeling my heart thunder wrapped rapidly in my chest. It should've occurred to me that the idols would try to strike me where it would hurt most (other than my dad, of course): academics. I look up at Zayd. “And why are you showing me these?”
“Becky left her jacket with me the other day,” Zayd starts, rolling his eyes like he just can't with her. The funny thing is, they are two peas in a pod; they deserve each other. “These fell out of it. I have to take them to her now, and I figure when she does her third period office work tomorrow, organizing Miss Peregrine’s papers, she'll swap these out for your real test and essay.”
Zayd reaches out to take the papers, and I let him, thoroughly confused.
“Why are you telling me this?” I repeat, as Zayd tucks the papers away into his bookbag. “I don't understand.”
The guys have been much easier on me this year than last year, but that doesn't make any sense. They must be gearing up for something big.
“For what it's worth,” Zayd says, turning away and glancing over his shoulder at me, “as soon as I found out that Becky had hit you, I haven't touched her. I just couldn't.” Zayd wrinkles his nose, and shakes his head. “I don't want you to get hurt, so please, for the love of all that's holy, Charity, just go.”
Zayd turns back around and heads up the stairs. I watch him go, and then I do my best to come up with a plan.
After cheerleading practice the next day, I head to the office of our English teacher, Miss Peregrine. The room is locked and dark, the lights off, and the shade over the small window pulled down. To get in, I'm either going to need a key… or a lockpick.
Cursing under my breath, I head back to the chapel building, down the hall and out the stained glass doors on the other side. Once I get to Tower Three, I take the elevator to the fifth floor and head over to Zack's room. I barely raise my fist to knock when he's opening it, dressed in low-slung sweats, no shirt, and a fine layer of fresh sweat.
“Marnye?” he asks, stepping aside to let me in. There is some seriously sexy jazz music on, and all the shades are pulled down. For a moment there, I wonder if I'm interrupting something that I don't want to see.
I spin around, and find Zack is suddenly standing far too close to me. He smells good too, which is really weird considering he's all sweaty. But seriously, there's something so different between fresh sweat and old sweat. The latter is disgusting, but the former … it's almost like a cologne. I find myself attracted to it even though I don't want to be.
“Is there a girl in here?” I ask, and Zack narrows his eyes on me. He takes a step forward, and I take one back. The movement surprises him, and he ends up raising one of his dark brows.
“That bother you?” he replies, his voice dark and smooth and cold as bittersweet chocolate ice cream. He takes a step toward me again, but I have nowhere to