Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“No.” He chuckles.
“Did I say something funny?”
“You honestly think I’m dating someone?”
“Why are you saying it like I insulted you—are you too good to date? Is no one smart enough for you?”
It would make perfect sense that he wouldn’t want to date a dullard; guys like him—ambitious ones with their lives planned out—rarely find time for a person who doesn’t possess the same drive and determination.
I would know because that’s how my dad is.
Roman is silent again, eyes trailing back to the girls at the bottom of the stairs.
I recognize one of them as Kaylee Sheffield; she’s a cheerleader, too, but she’s a flyer and we don’t practice in the same groups so I rarely have the chance to talk to her.
“They’re pretty,” I say. “Do you want to go talk to them?”
He snorts. “As if any of those girls would give me the time of day.”
Ahh.
I get it.
Roman doesn’t date because he doesn’t have the self-confidence. I’ve seen plenty of people like that before, not just guys but girls too, doubting and second-guessing themselves because they don’t think they’re good enough—the same way I’d never feel smart enough to date a guy who wants to work at NASA and program spaceships.
“I don’t think you should judge them based on their appearances. Everyone has a type.”
His neck swivels. “We’re on Jock Row at a baseball party—I’ll give you one guess as to what their type is.”
Fine, he’s got me there, but only on a technicality.
Still.
He’s stereotyping them the way he’s probably stereotyping me, but guess what?
I’m used to it.
Cheerleaders may not be considered the studious type, and sure, I’m no brainiac so some of the stereotypes in my case may be true—but I’m kind and determined and give everyone a chance. I try not to judge, and I try to give people the benefit of the doubt.
I fiddle with the bracelet on my left wrist, the one I braided a few nights ago in front of the television, sitting my bum on the floor while I watched a reality matchmaking show. It’s made of my favorite colors—green and pink—in an intricate pattern I learned one summer at camp.
I rub the soft yarn between my thumb and index finger.
“So, you think if you went down and talked to those girls, you’d get rejected?”
Roman doesn’t look at me. “Um, what do you think.”
“I think you shouldn’t doubt yourself.”
He’s silent, but in the dim shadows, I can see his lips purse; he wants to respond but isn’t going to.
Then, finally—
“What about you? Why aren’t you down there flirting and having a good time?”
My head gives a tiny shake. “I don’t have the energy—I have to be up early tomorrow, but since everyone was coming out tonight, I also didn’t want to sit in the dorms by myself.”
Plus, I didn’t want to be there when the new roomie arrived.
“Why do you have to be up early tomorrow? It’s Saturday.”
“Practice.”
“Practice for what?”
Oh god, he’s going to make me say it.
I sit up straighter, stiffening my spine. “I’m a cheerleader. We practice six days out of the week.”
I brace myself.
Wait for whatever sarcastic, biting remark he’s going to sling back about airheads or blondes or cheer—but none come.
“You must be good if you made a college team.”
I blush.
Golly gee. “I guess.”
“Why are you being so modest? You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am proud of myself.”
I am.
I’m proud. Like he said, it’s not easy becoming a collegiate cheerleader; I’ve busted my ass for the past five years, cheering for my high school, cheering on a competitive team, doing camps, workshops, training. And that doesn’t include working out to stay fit and strong.
It’s been brutal and certainly hasn’t been easy.
Not everyone can do it and not everyone does, but I’ve proven myself over the years.
“You look like a dancer,” Roman comments.
I look like a dancer? What do dancers look like? Is that a type?
“How can you even tell?” I laugh. “It’s dark up here.”
“I don’t know—I can just tell.” He laughs back.
“What dorm are you in?”
“I’m not in the dorms. I still live at home.”
“How do you still live at home?”
“I’m local. It only takes me fifteen minutes to get here, so to save money, I’m not living in the dorms.”
“Oh.” I pause, searching for some more words. “How is that working out for you?”
“Don’t know yet since school hasn’t started, but I imagine it’s going to be like high school, just have to drive farther.”
True. Good point.
“Why didn’t you go anywhere farther? Did you, like, not have any choices?”
“Yeah, I had plenty of options. I got a few scholarship offers, too, but my aunt lives with my parents and she’s kind of old. They sometimes need help with her, so I couldn’t go too far. Plus, I need time to figure out what it is I want to do, you know?”