Curvy Girls Can't Date Cowboys - Kelsie Stelting Page 0,12
of a fearmongerer?” He leveled his gaze at me, and my mouth fell open.
“Excuse me?” I said. “How about a day in the life of an a—”
“How’s it going?” Mr. Davis asked us, wearing an amused expression.
“Great, sir,” Ray said, transforming completely. “Working out some... creative differences.”
Mr. Davis chuckled. “Oh, how we suffer for our art.” He patted my shoulder. “Make sure you’re making some concessions.”
“Why are you assuming it’s me?” I asked, thoroughly ruffled.
He just smiled, and Ray barely masked his laughter.
I glared at him.
“Carry on,” Mr. Davis said. “Can’t wait to see what the two of you create!”
As he walked away, I muttered, “How about World War III?”
Ray laughed out loud. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Is that a jab at my size?” I demanded.
“No, at your diplomacy skills. Or lack thereof.”
I rolled my eyes. “And what do you know about diplomacy, cowboy?”
“That you should listen to what the other person has to say before declaring them your enemy.”
“For the record,” I said with way more surety than I felt, “I looked up farrowing crates last night. You’re despicable.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m dying to hear what else you learned from YouTube University.”
Internally, I faltered. What did he know that I didn’t? Externally, I shook my head. “It’s so not worth it.”
“What? Afraid you’ll get proven wrong?” His eyebrow quirked, and I so wanted to smack it back into place.
Why did he irk me like no one else could? I wasn’t this angry person. I got along with people, had fun, but this jerk goaded me in ways I’d never been before. “For your information—”
“Okay, class,” Mr. Davis said, “we’re almost out of time today. This project is due on Monday. It doesn’t have to be technically excellent, but I’d love to see your storytelling skills shine through. If you don’t have any questions, you’re dismissed!”
No one raised their hands, so I bent and shoved my notebook back in my backpack. At the sound of the bell, I threw it over my shoulder.
“You better come back with your ideas tomorrow,” I told Ray. “You might be a sinking ship, but I’m not going down with you.”
Nine
As I left class, I was beginning to feel more and more helpless. Between videography spiraling out of control, my parents refusing to let me live in the dorms, and my hopeless love life, it felt like I was going nowhere. How much life was I missing out on—and would continue to miss out on—stuck under my parents’ thumb?
On the way to my next class, I passed our guidance counselor’s door. In lieu of the typical nameplate, she’d had one designed with flowers and hummingbirds that read Birdie’s Nest.
I stood outside the closed door and stared at the handle. I knew I’d regret this, but... Cringing, I knocked on the door.
“Come in!” she called.
With a sigh, I opened the door and stepped in cautiously. Birdie really was in a nest, surrounded by files and her bird named Ralphie.
“Hi,” I said.
She grinned. “Ginger. How can I help you?”
The door swung shut loudly behind me, and Ralphie flapped his wings at me reproachfully. “Sorry,” I muttered to him and said, “I was...well, it’s a long story.”
She glanced at the cuckoo clock above her desk. “I have thirty minutes and a late pass for you.”
“Okay...” I settled awkwardly into the chair in front of her desk.
“Fabulous job on the welcome back video, by the way. And UCLA.” She clapped her hands. “Bravo.”
I managed a smile. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk about. I was wondering if there might be any housing scholarships you can think of...”
“Are your parents having trouble?” she asked. “I know you have little sisters...”
“That’s not it,” I answered. Honestly, the store gave us what we needed and more. “But my parents don’t want me to live on campus, and I was thinking if it was paid for, they might not have any reason to say no?”
With a sad look, she leaned on her desk. “That’s a shame. Kids learn so much in the dorms—if only how to find a good hiding place for wine coolers.” She winked, then straightened. “Let me look into it. Would you be opposed to me calling a meeting with them?”
I hesitated. “Would it make them upset?”
“You know them better than I do,” she said, “but I could call it a college planning meeting and discuss ways Emerson Academy will support you post-graduation.”
“You’d do that?” I asked, feeling guilty for all the times I’d made