“And it’s not?”
“No. They meet at freaking seven am. Whitney is on it and she’s mean. And your sister isn’t nice to me when Whitney is around. So you have to get on it and team up with me. Or at least run interference.”
“You should get your boyfriend to do that for you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend and you know it.”
“Whatever, you’re with him. Obviously.”
“Whatever. I want you.”
His eyes sparkle at me and a little grin plays on his lips. “I knew you'd come around.”
“I don’t want you, want you. You seem to be one of the few people here that can hang out with them, be a part of their group, but yet, you’re not a part of it. How do you do that? How are you popular without being with them?”
“Because I don’t want it.”
“I don’t want it either. So why does she hate me so much?”
“All you have to do is look at yourself in the mirror to answer that question.”
“She hates the way I look?”
Aiden chuckles and pulls me onto the bed to sit with him. “I’m a guy. I’m not a threat to her. You’re pretty, Boots. Pretty, smart, and you have this, this, way about you. This casual friendliness that people are drawn to. And you seem to be very comfortable in the spotlight.”
“Are you comfortable in the spotlight?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve heard you are a really good soccer player. Usually really good athletes have to comfortable in the spotlight. It sort of comes with the job.”
“I’m not a cocky jerk on the field, but I am a good goalie.”
“From what I’ve heard, good is an understatement.”
He smiles. He has the prettiest smile I have ever seen. Even his teeth are perfect.
“I’d say I’m confident in my abilities.”
“Do you get nervous? Like, stage fright kind of thing? Ever choked in a big game?”
“Not since I was about ten. I played up an age group in the Fourteen and Under League. The guys were a lot bigger than me. I lost a game because I got distracted and missed the ball. I’ve never let it happen again.”
“You’ve never been scored on since?”
A smirk plays on his lips and his eyes twinkle.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t mean that kind of scoring. I already heard about your man whore ways last year. I’m still talking about soccer.”
“I have been scored on a total of eleven times since then.”
“Eleven times in seven years. Those are pretty good stats. I’m impressed.”
“Good to know there’s at least one way I can impress you.”
“You can impress me by getting on Social Committee. And we were talking about how you are popular without being popular. You have everyone in your room all the time. I don’t get it.”
He hangs his head down a little. “Maybe I like to party.”
“You don't seem like you do.”
“Fine. I got roped into it.”
“Wait. You’re doing something for them that you didn’t want to do. Why?”
“I do it for my sister. I'm trying to keep her out of trouble.”
I repeat the words he said to me in class one day. “And here I thought you were different.”
“Shut up,” he says, but he’s grinning at me.
I smile big and say in a singsong voice. “Aiden’s been drinking the Kool-Aid.”
He grabs my shoulders, which makes me feel like my body just turned to putty. “Fine. I'll get on the Social Committee.”
His hands are still touching me as he speaks. It’s hard for me to hear what he’s saying because he’s touching me.
I finally say, “We need to be a united front. I know if you’re there, your sister won’t pick on me.”
“My sister likes you. Why would she pick on you?”
“She’s nice to me at dance and at soccer, but when Whitney’s around she's not.”
Aiden shakes his head. “I don’t understand her sometimes.”
“I do, actually. I used to be her.”
“What?”
“Yep. At my old school. I don’t ever want to be popular again.”
“But you’re dating Dawson.”
“I’m hanging out with Dawson because he’s sweet. Not because he’s popular.”
Aiden leans back on his pillow and stares up at the twinkling lights. I lean back and look up at them too.
“So did you date the popular guy at your last school too?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So your Keats guy. He was the most popular?”
I start laughing so hard I swallow my spit the wrong way and have a choking fit. Aiden hands me the Gatorade he’s been drinking. “No. He wasn’t socially acceptable, according to my friend, who I swear is a Whitney clone.” I stop and snap my fingers. “That’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“Whitney. What does she have on your sister?”
“What do you mean?”
“The reason I never crossed my Whitney is because she knew something embarrassing about me and threatened to tell everyone. And it sorta would have ruined my reputation.”
He rolls over on his side and gives me a crooked smile. “What’d she have on you?”
“I’m not telling you!”
“Why not?”