Getting Played - Emma Chase Page 0,26

getting smarter. Which is why we don’t study or screw around on our phones at the end of AP Calculus.”

I turn around and walk to my desk. But when I sit down, Jason has his hand raised.

“Yes?”

“Boba Fett didn’t say that.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “The actual quote is ‘He’s no good to me dead.’ ’Cause he was, you know, talking about Han Solo.”

Slowly I nod. “And now you’ve got an extra credit point on the next quiz too. Well done.”

I like this kid. I don’t always like all of them—that’s the dirty little secret of teaching. But I like him.

“You a big fan of Star Wars, Burrows?”

“Kind of.” He shrugs. “My mom’s into all those old movies.”

Old movies . . . nice.

“She says everyone my age should watch them, because they don’t make them like that anymore.”

“Your mom sounds like a smart lady.” I smile. “And I think you are going to fit in with this class just fine.”

Chapter Six

Lainey

Most bloggers, Instagramers, and influencers do their damnedest to project a flawless image to their followers. Perfect lighting, background, makeup, clothes—perfect double mocha latte with an intricate oak tree leaf designed in the foam.

I’ve never been a flawless person. Or organized. I’m more of a hot mess who happened to be blessed with good skin. But my followers like me that way—so I show them the good, the bad, and the morning sickness ugly.

Which is why when I’m recording in the kitchen and the wave of nausea that’s been crashing down on me all day turns into a tsunami, I leave the camera running while I dive into the small hallway bathroom. Later, I’ll edit out the sounds of my wrenching heaves that feel like they’re emptying my stomach and my soul. But the before and after, that stays in the video.

Because it’s real.

I step out of the “barfroom” a few minutes later, dabbing at my face with a damp towel. “Sorry about that, Lifers. This kid is killing me. I never had morning sickness with Jaybird. Is this like an omen of things to come—’cause if it is, I’m screwed.”

I posted the pregnancy video announcement last week—the Lifers are all super excited for me. Though I occasionally mention Mr. Hot-Baby-Daddy or Sexy-Drummer-Guy interchangeably, I’ve kept any other details about Dean and his level of involvement purposely vague.

I grab the pencil and notebook that sits on the shiny marble counter top and record the “vomitous” occasion for posterity. Then I hold the notebook up to the camera.

“Did I tell you guys I started a pregnancy journal? It’s for me, mostly, and for the baby when they’re an adult, so I can guilt them into taking care of me when I’m old.”

I hold up a picture of myself taken in the master bath mirror yesterday—topless and turned to the side with my arm across my breasts, to show the weekly progression of my surprisingly expanding stomach. That’s different from Jason too—I’m only about three and a half months and already starting to pop.

“And it’s for Mr. Sexy-Baby-Daddy too, so he won’t miss out on any big moments.” I set the notebook aside. “Anyway, where were we?”

The kitchen is finished. I decorated it in shades of white with wood touches—to go with the overall nautical theme and because it’s super easy to change out accent colors. There are white cabinets for storage below the counter, but on the walls above it, it’s open thick, butcher-block shelving that hold neat rows of white ceramic dishes and glasses. There’s a matching hood above the stainless steel range and an accent wall of distressed horizontal oak planks with a massive five-by-three chalkboard sign hung across the top that reads LAKE.

I installed the two-inch tile backsplash myself—on camera. It was painstaking work—but also meditative. Listening to music helped pass the time as well as romance audiobooks—a suggestion from one of my followers.

Finally, the sculpted glass chandelier that hangs over the shiny, white, marble-topped island gives the whole room a real touch of sophistication.

I pick up the empty spray bottle on the counter and pour each ingredient in. “We mix together one cup of hydrogen peroxide, two teaspoons of baking soda, a drop of dish soap and a squeeze of lemon—and voila! We have an effective, lemony-smelling carpet and fabric cleaner that’s safe for babies, pregnant ladies, animals and plants—that you can make yourself for pennies.”

It’s baking soda day. I’ve shown them how to make homemade teeth-whitening trays, toothpaste, insect bite cream, heartburn remedies and now carpet cleaner.

Baking