Don't Kiss the Class Clown (Billionaire Academy YA Romance Book 4) Page 2

  “What does that even mean?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what it meant.

  She scoffed, skipping ahead of me. “He’s cute and you know it.”

  We turned down the corridor. “Whatever.” So he was cute, and sometimes he was amusing, but I was definitely not interested.

  Gamela leaned against the wall by my door while I unlocked it and went inside. She followed me, prattling on about Ryan and other stuff. She didn’t have a problem carrying our conversations and wasn’t offended that I was surly. We were getting close to that friendship stage where we understood each other’s moods. If it weren’t for her, my feel-sorry-for-myself factor would be off the charts.

  I looked down at the mess I’d gotten myself into, and worry crept in. Would I ever be Olympic competition ready again?

  I had to push those negative thoughts away and make a choice right then to toe the line on the week off. Dr. Dave knew what he was doing. As one of the top physical therapists in the state, he’d been wooed to the academy by the chance to work on some of the world’s up-and-coming athletes. The challenge of keeping us healthy through rigorous training schedules made his day. If I followed his orders—stay off my leg, rest, eat well, do everything I was supposed to do—I could get back to pushing myself to be ready for Olympic trials in June.

  School and training. That was it. No distractions. Including the annoying and annoyingly cute Ryan Jacobs, who may or may not have watched me during practice.

  Chapter 2

  The pill Dr. Dave prescribed had knocked me out last night. It was a good thing that I’d decided to shower before I’d climbed into bed, because I overslept. I never oversleep. My internal clock woke me at five a.m. on the dot every day. Except when I was on painkillers, obviously.

  Fog filled my brain, too. Was that a side effect of the medicine? The pain wasn’t bad enough to suffer through being tired and brain dead. Dr. Dave could have the pills back.

  On a normal day, I would have already been at the gym, warmed up and going through my balance beam routine. I hoped he didn’t mind me being ten minutes late to the therapy session.

  I turned past the basketball gym a little too fast and pulled the scooter up on two wheels. The recovery caused my uniform skirt to fly up. Thankfully, it was early enough that most students were just rolling out of bed, not outside. I know the scooter was made for injuries like mine, but it didn’t work well with the girls’ pleated skirt school uniform. The knee socks weren’t warm enough for me. Fleece-lined leggings were more my style for this type of weather. I owned a pair for the few days it actually got cold enough in Houston to wear them. Maybe I could talk my coaches into giving me a pass to wear sweatpants or leggings for the week.

  A hint of sunshine poked above the horizon, granting enough light to view across the English garden and the frost-covered grass to the pond. One wing of the library faced east, overlooking the lake and sunrise. The library was the one building that held to a traditional architectural interior and exterior. Contemporary-minimalist style was all me, but there was something that drew me to the books, the high arching entrances, the leaded and stained-glass windows, and the rich wood tables and bookcases.

  It reminded me of the gym. They both smelled like focus. Maybe it was a weird connection.

  As the sun rose, its warm light glinted off the leaded glass windows. It drew my attention to a large porthole at the top, revealing a familiar face. What was Ryan Jacobs doing up there at this time of the morning? How did he even get up there? In the short time I’d been at MLA, I’d explored most of the library and never found a seating area next to a porthole window.

  When I saw Ryan during second period, he always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Not that he wasn’t handsome. Maybe the “just out of bed” look was on purpose. His shaggy dark hair wasn’t long, but it was messy nonetheless. And kind of perfect.

  Note to self: Don’t let Gamela hear me say Ryan is handsome.

  I continued to roll along the concrete path, looking up, hoping to catch a glimpse of his dark blue eyes without him seeing me. All of a sudden, the front scooter wheels dropped off what seemed like a cliff. Head over heels I tumbled, landing flat on my back on the ground, bumping my sore ankle in the process. Even with the protective boot brace, pain shot up the side of my leg on impact, and I sucked in a breath to keep from crying.

  The cold, wet grass pressed against my bare legs. It seeped through my underwear to my backside, too. Winter in the north, no matter how mild it allegedly was, was not for me. I was frozen … an Ally-scicle.

  Wait …

  I glanced down and gasped. Oh my gosh. My skirt had flipped upward as if I had been hanging upside down and dropped on the mat. My abs clenched. Ugh!

  I quickly smoothed it down, covering the teeny-tiny shorts I wore under the skirt just in case. Yeah, just in case someone flipped the back of my skirt up. They weren’t real underwear. I used to wear them over my tumbling uniform a few years ago. But they were small enough that they passed for the “boy shorts” style.

  It was in that moment that I remembered why I had done a nosedive into the ground. Ryan. The biggest screw-off in the school saw me crash with my butt hanging in the air. It’d probably be all over social media by the time I got to the gym this morning.

  I craned my neck and glared up at the window. The angle of the sunlight, rare as it was, reflected and created a mirrored surface. It wasn’t until I scrambled to my hands and knees to get a different angle that I saw he was gone.

  Maybe he hadn’t seen me.

  Relief swept through me, and I let my head hang toward the ground. Nothing hurt but my pride.

  The thought of a picture of me floating through the internet with my exposed boy-shorts butt flying over the handlebars was totally embarrassing. The underwear thing wasn’t that big of a deal. I mean, I competed in a leotard. The issue was that I was supposed to be a strong and coordinated gymnast. You don’t get to the elite level and be a klutz.

  A breeze blew across my damp skin, causing a shiver to run through me. My parents had told me Washington’s climate was mild. Our definitions of “mild” weren’t the same. February in Houston had some chilly days here and there, but nothing like this. I crawled to the scooter, dragging it and my pack to the concrete path, climbed up, and rolled on my frozen popsicle way.

  After a month on campus, I finally knew where I was going and how to get there. The interactive schedule app was a lifesaver. Just over a month ago, I’d gone from doing all my schooling from the desk in my bedroom to a swanky boarding school. Practically overnight.

  The homeschool program I’d begun when I’d moved into gymnastics full time was supposed to have been the best in the nation. It might have been the best online school, but it was junior high stuff compared to Billionaire Academy. I snickered to myself. That was my pet name for Mt. Rainier Legacy Academy. With the exception of just a few, every single person attending was a child of a billionaire. Probably millionaires themselves with cushy trust funds.

  Their parents expected the best. And the academy delivered.

  Speaking of the best …

  “Miss Woods,” Mr. Kremer addressed me as I rolled into the classroom. “Whatever happened?”

  MLA classes were more than the standard college prep. I had to test into every single class. It wasn’t a walk in the park. Since I’d come in midyear, I didn’t get to choose my classes either. Second period economics 101, for instance. Taught by a Harvard professor, Mr. Kremer, on sabbatical who wanted to “give back” to his alma mater by committing to four years of teaching business and economics at the high school level. Thankfully, he was two years in already. I could only imagine how hard that first year would have been.

  As soon as Mr. Kremer asked about my obvious impairment, all eyes were on me. I navigated into the room a little farther while the bell rang and said, “I had an accident yesterday. Do you mind if I sit in the back so that I can prop my foot up?”

  “Certainly,” Mr.
Kremer agreed. “Mr. Jacobs, would you assist Miss Woods?”

  Great. The other issue with this class … Mr. Jacobs. A particular student who seemed to thrive on disruption all—the—time. He cracked jokes that weren’t funny. Pulled pranks that were immature. Distracted Mr. Kremer, even if that meant we had more work outside of class. A billionaire delinquent, in terms of academia. He never took anything seriously.

  Oh, and he was the same class clown that I’d wrecked in front of early this morning.

  Yeah, that Ryan Jacobs.

  I looked toward the back of the class and found him wearing a grin that said he was up to no good. Panic weaved its way around my chest. Was there a meme of me tumbling head first over the scooter handle bars?

  “Of course, Mr. Kremer. I’d be more than happy to be of assistance.” Ryan slid his things across the long tabletop and pulled out the chair for me, making sure that it was close to the one he would soon occupy.

  “Thanks,” I said softly. Then I proceeded to tug it toward the end before I slid into it, propping my leg on the seat of the scooter. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate his help. My regular seat was in the front, the opposite corner of Ryan’s seat. On a normal day, even that was too close.

  Ryan lifted an eyebrow at me and looked down at the distance between us, as if asking, What gives? My stomach swirled and I lifted a shoulder, not wanting to engage. He could be waiting for the perfect moment to flash a meme of me with my skirt up in my face. The fewer chances I gave him to humiliate me, the better—especially since I seemed to do enough of that on my own.

  Mr. Kremer began class by quoting a United States Federal Reserve chairman I had never heard of. I pulled out my laptop to take notes.

  Ryan scooted his chair closer to mine and whispered, “Is it broken? I saw what happened yesterday.”

  I shook my head and tried to pay attention to the teacher. I was still getting used to the whole attending class in a room thing.

  Most everyone in the eleventh grade had been attending MLA since freshman year, and some had gone to the sister junior high before that. They all seemed so free and comfortable where they were at, and I didn’t know anyone except for Gamela. I guess I sort of knew her friend Lacey. And a couple of my teammates. Hmm. Maybe I knew more people than I thought. Their names and faces, anyway. And … not everyone was as annoying and irritating as my new neighbor.

  “Do you know karate?” Ryan asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Tae kwon do?”

  Again, I shook my head, typing in my notes of the highlighted on the screen.

  Ryan continued, “Jujitsu?”

  I turned to him with narrow eyes and cocked my head to the side. I tried to be polite, but seriously, he needed to stop. It wasn’t like I wanted to give him my mean-girl face, the one I wore at meets to intimidate the competition, but he’d asked for it.

  His up-to-no-good grin stretched across his perfectly plump lips. My eyes were drawn to them, wondering if they were soft or firm or both. When I realized that I was staring, I quickly yanked my gaze back to the screen and then my notes. So what if he had a mouth that looked totally kissable? He wasn’t the only guy I had occasionally daydreamed about kissing.

  Luckily, he didn’t notice, but his martial arts questions did. Not. Stop.

  “No!” I whisper-shouted.

  Ryan’s eyebrows shot up. He raised his hands in surrender, and I tried to catch up with what was being taught.

  The art of focus among distractions was something I had learned through gymnastics. Different groups worked simultaneously on the beam, vault, parallel bars, and floor. Music played for floor routines. Younger kids made more noise. It was an organized three-ring circus. I had been in that circus for ten years and had mastered the chaos early on. But throw me into a classroom with Ryan Jacobs, and I was toast.

  The soft brush of Ryan’s breath tickled my ear when he whispered, “How long have you been in gymnastics?”

  I closed my eyes as I tried to control the shiver that ran through me. Did he do that to every person that sat by him? Did they shiver too?

  He did it again. “You’re really good.”

  Reacting to him seemed to only encourage his pestering, so I tried to ignore him instead.

  It didn’t work. I heard Mr. Kremer’s voice, even typed a few of his words in my notes, but I didn’t know what he was saying. All I could hear was the class clown’s endless chatter.

  “Okay, people,” Mr. Kremer said. “Check the Econ 101-2 page. Under today’s date, you’ll find the pop quiz.”

  A girl in the row ahead of me grumbled, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

  “When you are finished with said quiz, please note that your assignments for the rest of the week are also listed, including a five-page report on the neoclassical versus the Keynesian theories.”

  Thanks to Ryan’s chatter and distracting lips, I hadn’t heard a word of instruction. I was already struggling in this class, and failing was never an option.

  Chapter 3

  Gamela and her friend Lacey sat down across from me in the cafeteria. I smiled.

  “So you think you bombed the econ quiz?” Gamela asked.

  I had sent her a message after class. It was quick and to the point, because navigating through a crowd on a scooter was harder than it sounded. “Think? Ha,” I scoffed. “I know I did.”

  Tia Radcliffe came by and whispered in Lacey’s ear before scurrying off.

  “Don’t feel too bad. Economics is not my thing either,” Gamela said with a shrug, and she took a bite of her salad. It was no wonder Gamela was so thin. All she ate was chicken, salad, and a little fruit here and there.

  I looked down at my own food—a salad with grilled chicken and a bowl of fruit with yogurt. Okay, so we had similar eating habits.

  Lacey’s plate was a little heartier. Her eyes trailed after her friend and the student body president as she added, “Yeah, Mr. Kremer knows all about business startups.”

  Gamela washed down her food. The rumble of conversations picking up as students sat and ate. “He’s a good teacher and super nice,” she said. “I’m sure he’d help if you asked him. That’s kind of a thing here.”

  When she gave advice, it was usually smart stuff, so I perked up and listened.

  “You have to be responsible and do the work, but if someone needs help, they also have to learn to speak up for themselves and ask for it.”

  Lacey nodded along with her.

  About the time she finished, laughter erupted a few tables away. Based on their height and athletic build, they were most likely basketball players and were yukking it up with the jokester himself. Ryan from economics class.

  The interrogation during class flashed back to me. I stared at him and said, “It would’ve been so bad, except Ryan wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t focus on a word Mr. Kremer said.”

  Gamela leaned across the table and touched my arm. “Wait. Do you mean the same Ryan that couldn’t take his eyes off of you while you tumbled yesterday?”

  Lacey’s eyes widened. “Cute, funny, available Ryan Jacobs?” she asked.

  Both of their expressions reminded me of the wide-eyed, flush-faced emoji.

  I couldn’t help but giggle at them. “Yes. And thanks to him, I got a big fat F for the day.”

  Gamela looked over her shoulder at him. “So … what did he say? Did he ask you out?” Her eyes lit up, waiting for me to answer.

  “No. He didn’t ask me out. He kept asking me if I knew martial arts. The guy doesn’t take anything seriously, including his grades.” I shook my head and forked a bite of salad.

  Lacey sipped her drink, tilting her head back and forth as if she were debating something in her head. “Maybe he was just trying to get to know you better.”

  Huh? I let out a scoff, but my belly did a flip at the thought. It quickly faded when I recalled what was at stake. “Hello? Olympic tryouts, remember? I don’t have time to get to know guys better. Training is my number one pr
iority. Even if I did want to date, the guy is totally not my type.”

  Not that I had ever had a type. Boy stuff had to wait until the Olympics were over. I nodded toward his table. “See what I mean? He’s probably over there making fun of somebody right now. And I’m pretty sure that he bombed that quiz, too. Doesn’t this place have standards? Like you have to get a C average or better?”

  Lacey snickered, covering her mouth. After she swallowed down the food, she said, “You sound like such a snob.”

  We looked around us at all the rich people surrounding us and burst out laughing.

  “Sorry,” I said, still laughing at how silly her snob comment sounded. “My ankle really hurts right now.” I had it propped on the chair next to me. “I thought I could get by without taking anything at all, but I might need to go to the nurse’s office or something.”

  “That bad?” Lacey asked.

  “It … aches. Obviously puts me in a mood.”

  Gamela coughed, “No comment.”

  I wadded up my napkin and threw it at her. “Shut up.”

  She threw it back, giggling.

  “Driving this scooter with a backpack through a crowd is not as easy as you think, La La.” I pulled that nickname out of thin air, hoping it would distract her from my bad mood—and my admission by not denying that Ryan was super cute, with amazing eyes and lips that almost hypnotized me during econ class.

  “Hmm,” she mused, tapping a finger against her temple. “You’re not training now …”

  A guy came up to our table, gripped the handles of my scooter, and asked, “Do you mind if I try this baby out? It looks like a beast.” Before I was able to tell him no way, he took off in the opposite direction with it and disappeared down the hall.

  I was left with my mouth hanging open, hoping he would come back in, like, two minutes.

  In the meantime, Ryan had slid into the seat next to me. “Hey, Gamela, Lacey,” he said.

  “Hey, Ryan,” she answered, smirking as if she had a secret.