And then there was this guy I'd been constantly texting for two fucking months—Andre.
We will make the perfect goddamn match, wouldn't we? Football captain and cheer captain.
Power couple straight out of a horny teen movie. He was hot as hell, my jock, he was built like he could bench-press me and still have energy left to fuck me against the lockers.
The problem was, I didn't think he even knew it was me he'd been chatting and flirting with every night. Late-night DMs, thirst traps disguised as "just woke up" selfies, me dropping hints thick enough to choke on, but never enough to blow my cover.
I played dumb on purpose. I Kept the spelling sloppy, with excessive emojis and nonexistent grammer.
I didn't want him thinking I was that intelligent bitch who actually read books and crushed AP classes. Nah. I let him picture me as the easy, giggling cheer slut who only cared about his dick.
When your school already branded you the high school whore, you tended to lean the fuck into it. Lived up to their nasty little expectations so hard they couldn't call you anything else. So yeah, I hid all my As.
I Told Mom I got straight Ds and Cs and maybe one pity B. Did that shit for three months straight and she stopped looking so disappointed. Eventually she just sighed, lit another cigarette, and said, "Honey, maybe school's not your spark." Worked every time. Kept her off my back while I quietly stacked college apps in the dark.
Only three people knew the real score: Xander, Ellie, and my course advisor (who was sworn to secrecy because Princeton wasn't handing out spots to girls who looked like couldn't spell "application" ). How dumb could one possibly be.
I still needed that Ivy League golden ticket. Needed it bad. Couldn't let Andre, or anyone else, know how good was at school, Because well ???
Where's the fun in that?
And no one likes a smart ass.
So I kept texting him like the brainless bimbo he probably jerked off thinking about. Sent him pics of my ass in the cheer skirt, captioned shit like "oops fell again lol ". Let him think I was just another easy lay waiting for his letterman jacket.
Believe me it's fucking hard.
You try Staying up at 2 a.m. rewriting my personal statement, perfecting my SAT vocab, and pretending my heart didn't fucking shatter every time Xander looked at me like he'd already moved on.
Senior year was my circus. And I was the ringmaster playing every role at once.