Because I want to.
And because Ronan made a promise to someone to get through this year. But I knew he wouldn’t accept either answer. He’d think it was charity and he’d already been embarrassed enough for one day.
“To thank you for the shed. It’s beyond perfect.”
“Bibi thanked me. That’s what the money was for.”
“That was from her. This is from me.” I gave the cuff of his denim jacket a tug. “We don’t have much time. If we’re going to beat Baskin at his own dickish game, we have to move fast.”
Ronan hesitated a moment more, then nodded. “I guess.”
“Try to contain your enthusiasm,” I said with a grin. “This will work.”
We hurried to the library, and I jumped on one of the computers while Ronan stood stiffly behind me, arms crossed tight.
“Paper,” I said, holding out my hand like a surgeon asking for a scalpel.
Ronan pulled the paper from his backpack. “Fuck it,” he muttered, then handed it over.
The first thing that shocked me was how long it was. More than the ten pages Baskin required.
Worse, it was really damn good.
Dammit. Ronan looks like he does and he’s smart as hell. I’m being tested. The universe is testing me.
As I typed, Ronan’s intelligence came through loud and clear, though in an understated way. Simple but powerful sentences. His empathy for the nearly fourteen hundred people who died in a stampede thanks to poor planning bled through too. It was more than a paper on a tragic event but a convincing argument that Nicholas II’s time as Emperor was doomed from the start.
“How did you get so fast?” Ronan asked after a few minutes.
“Practice,” I said, eyes on his paper while my fingers flew. “I don’t like things that slow me down.”
He made a sound that might’ve been a chuckle. “I guess not.”
For the next ten minutes, I typed as fast as I could, conscious that the clock was ticking and that Ronan was behind me, relying on me to help save his grade.
“What’s this say?” I asked, holding up the paper where his pen ink had smudged a word.
“Commemorative,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “Shiloh…You don’t have to do this. It’s not worth it.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Your spelling could use work and your commas are a disaster, but the paper itself is really damn good. And if Baskin can’t see that, he’s an asshole.”
“But…”
“Hush. I’m working.”
Ronan snorted a small laugh, and twenty minutes later, I was done. I hit print, and we dashed from the library to the Admin building.
Inside, office staff were at their desks or talking in small groups. We hurried to Ms. Oliveri, the front desk administrator.
“Is Mr. Baskin still here?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s gone for the day.”
“Shit.”
Ms. Oliveri arched a brow.
“Come on, Shiloh,” Ronan said. “Let’s go.”
“Never give up. Never surrender.” I looked to Ms. Oliveri. “How long ago did he leave?”
“Not long. A few minutes—”
“Parking lot,” I said and grabbed Ronan’s hand. It was large and strong, calloused from work…like my shed. I tugged him outside the Admin building and was still holding his hand as we reached the faculty parking lot.
“Oh, sorry.” I let go quickly and gave him the paper instead. We scanned the lot. “There.”
Baskin was just unlocking the door to his brown Hyundai, juggling keys, a portfolio, and a coffee thermos.
“Mr. Baskin! Wait!”
He watched us approach, a frown under his mustache. Ronan offered the paper to Baskin who took it with narrowed eyes, his gaze taking in Ronan’s worn-out jacket and the tattoo peeking from under the sleeve. He scanned the pages; the more he read, the more the stern lines in his face softened. He glanced up, unable to keep how impressed he was off his face. Then his judgy frown returned.
“How much help did you give Mr. Wentz?”
“No help. I typed it. A little proofing. That’s it.”
“I wrote it,” Ronan stated.
Baskin’s eyes narrowed again. “Plagiarism is a very serious offense, Mr. Wentz…”
I gaped. “He didn’t…”
“I wrote it,” Ronan repeated.
Baskin pursed his lips. “Teachers have methods of knowing if that’s true or not.” He tucked the paper under his arm. “I’ll see you both on Monday, unless there’s anything else?”
“Nothing else,” I said tightly.
Baskin shot us a final dubious glance. We stepped back and he drove away.
“What an asshole,” I burst out when he was gone. “That paper is excellent. It’s smart and strong and…deep. It’s one hundred percent you.”
I felt Ronan’s eyes on me and realized what I’d said. A flush of heat burned my cheeks. “I mean…anyway, whatever, we did it.”
“You did it,” Ronan said. He was looking at me like he had the other night, and the parking lot—the entire planet—suddenly felt very empty. Just him and me…
“It was nothing,” I said.
“You probably saved my grade. That means a lot.”
The moment caught and held. Me, who planned and prepared to the Nth degree, had no clue what was going to happen next. The feeling was woozy and exhilarating at the same time. And completely unacceptable. I was getting in too deep. Too invested in whether or not this guy passed History.
Too invested, period.
“I gotta go,” I blurted. “Lots of work.”
Ronan stiffened. “Yeah, me too.”
We both turned and went our separate ways; from being alone together to just being alone.
Monday afternoon, Violet was absent from History. She’d texted me that she’d been up late studying for the SAT and AP tests. But I knew she was hurting to have to go to school and see Miller holding hands with Amber Blake.
Like a knife in my heart, said her text.
I wished I had something to say to make her feel better, but my own heart was twisted in knots, and talking to Violet about my feelings felt silly compared to everything she was dealing with.
In class, Baskin passed back our Russian Revolution papers. Mine had an A-minus in red ink on the cover page.
“All in all, I’m very impressed,” Baskin said, almost grudgingly. “Some of you picked interesting topics, indeed.” He seemed to look at Ronan when he said this.
I itched to know what grade Ronan had received. Not because I cared all that much, I told myself. But to make sure my efforts hadn’t been in vain.
After class, I waited outside. “Well?”
“B-minus,” Ronan said.
“What? That’s bullshit. Your paper was better than mine.”
“I passed. Thanks to you.”
“Nah, I told you. It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. I appreciate it. A lot.” His gray eyes met mine. “Thank you.”
I started to make a joke—my usual defense. Instead, I said softly, “You’re welcome.”