Good Grades & Mystery Games (North University Series Book 2)

Holy shit.

Watching Evan Branson almost shit himself was single-handedly the highlight of my year. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much terror in those – yes, I confirmed it – green eyes.

The whole thing was too funny for me not to laugh. I have a habit of laughing in uncomfortable situations and that just happened to be one of those.

At first, I thought I insulted him before he started laughing too. It was low and barely noticeable, but it strangely felt good to laugh. With him. It lasted all of thirty seconds before he drove us out of there and dropped me off home while he walked back to his.

I’m more confused today than I was two nights ago. One minute I’m feeling like I’m being haunted by something in Gio’s yard, the next I’m outside a sketchy jewellery shop, with Evan of all people.

I didn’t tell him this because I’m still not sure how much I trust him yet: academic rival and all. But I’m sure I recognised the guy who was inside the store. I don’t know what it was, but his posture was so familiar.

I know that’s a weird thing to say, but that’s the way I’ve always understood people. Wren almost always sits with her legs crossed, arms across her chest. Kennedy always womanspreads. My mom has naturally ‘perfect’ posture like me. But this guy was as straight as a door. He was standing with his phone in hand, his neck not seeming like a single kink was in it as he typed away. What was he doing, typing for so long? None of it made sense.

As I stared out that window, I tried to make sense of it all. I tried to let myself come up with some sort of theory, making myself believe that the change in shipments must be linked to Tinzin somehow and my dad unknowingly signed off on it.

It didn’t help that I could feel Evan’s eyes on the back of my head. It drives me insane not knowing what he’s thinking, that’s why I started the conversation. He makes me uneasy when he’s not talking so I filled the space with useless conversation. I’d rather speak nonsense than not speak at all. I’ve been like that my whole life, no matter who I’m with.

Well, it’s different with my dad, sitting here in this sterile room in a private hospital in Denver. I hate that he has to be so far from us, but this is the best hospital we can get and it’s only an hour and a half flight from Salt Lake. We’ve tried to make this room homey for him, pinning up pictures of us, hanging an Italian flag above the bed, a small bedside table with rosemary’s and prayer booklets my mom left but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s still the hiss coming from the heater, the rhythmic beeping of the machines and the gentle droplets of water coming from the dispenser in the corner of the room.

Even though I’m not supposed to, I’ve spent a few nights here, curled up with a blanket in the chair next to my dad’s bed. Most times I don’t even speak. I don’t go on my phone. I don’t read my book. I just think.

And it’s fucking terrifying. Being in your head all the time, feeling so utterly lonely whilst still feeling claustrophobic is the worst and most painful thing to experience. One minute I’m thinking about what I’m going to have for dinner, the next I’m thinking about oblivion. Even when I try to get the words to stop, they just keep coming, gushing towards me and I can’t escape it.

I spent the better half of the morning trying to piece together moments from the night outside of the store before I ended up going in circles. Then I finally got my ass out of my room, called Arthur to make sure the jet was ready, and I got here.

I wish there was more to say to my dad. I alternate between apologising and thanking him. I mean, that’s what you say to someone who gives you their everything and you can’t do anything when they need someone the most. Just like I was when mom was sick.

A small part of me regrets opening up that part of me to Branson, but it needed to be out there. If he’s going to be around more than usual, the least I can do is break a small barrier between us. If anyone is going to get what being in my situation is like, it has to be Evan, as annoying as that is to admit. There’s only so far that the girls can comfort me when they don’t fully understand what it’s like to be in my position.

Surprisingly, Evan is a good listener. He didn’t judge me or try to diminish my feelings like I thought he would. I can’t tell if that should be a quality I like or should be afraid of.

“Who did this to you?” I whisper, tapping my knee. I know I won’t to get a response, but it feels better to say my worries aloud. All there is in response is the rhythmic beep of the machine. “I’m trying, dad. I’m really trying. I don’t want you to think for a second that I’ve left you like everyone else has.”

I wait a few seconds. I don’t know what for. He’s only had two muscle spasms causing his finger to twitch, so I’m not expecting anything.

“Nothing is making sense to me. Why would you sign off on new imports when it doesn’t fit the status quo? And mom’s dream that you might have been forced into doing it…” I whisper, hoping that speaking it aloud will help me piece it together somehow. “That guy at the store was so familiar. I’ve seen him before. I must have. I’m going to figure this out, dad. One way or another, I’ll find out what happened to you. I’m not going to sit back and watch anymore. I can’t do that to you.”

I’m startled by the knock at the door, turning to realise it’s my dad’s nurse Sylvie, an older woman with pink hair. When I nod at her, sitting up straighter in the couch, she opens the door, wheeling in a cart of my dad’s food and other necessities.

I greet her and she updates me on how my dad is doing, telling me he’s responding well to the medication. When she straps on her gloves and gets ready to feed him, I stand up and say goodbye. I don’t like to stay for this part, and I know my dad would not want me to see him like this; so helpless and in need of help to feed himself. I give her my best smile before slipping out the door and catching an Uber to get the runway to get back home.

*  *  *

“That boy was looking for you again,” Kennedy shouts from the kitchen.

There is nothing I love more than an out-of-context conversation starter from Kennedy. I’ve been home for almost an hour after finishing up my homework at the library. The second I got in, I showered off the smell of hospital and school, snuggled into my favourite silk pyjamas and spread myself out on the comfortable white rug in the living room in front of the TV. Wren has a late practice today, so it’s just me and Ken and we’re about to watch a new episode of Love Island. That was until she ran into the kitchen to get us a refill of snacks.

I try to think of an answer to her weird statement. The only person I can think of is Charlie who I hooked up with a few weeks ago. Or maybe it was the guy from the night before the lecture on marketing strategies? I don’t know. I’ve had a ton of messages from Charlie since then, which I’ve been ignoring. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up here.

“What boy? If it was Charlie, I swear I’m going to-”

She cuts me off with her sing-song voice saying, “It was Eh-van.”

“Oh.”

I’ve been slightly avoiding him since the stakeout. It feels like we’re slipping into unknown territory, and I don’t know how to act around him. One second we hate each other, the next we’re staking out a potential murderer. I blew off our plans to study today so I could see my dad and he seemed fine with it.

Kennedy comes into the living room now, dressed in a set matching mine, except hers is in a dark blue opposed to my red. She flops down next to me lying on her stomach, her head in her hands as I lie on my back.

“What does ‘oh’ mean?” she asks curiously, tilting her head.

“It means I’m surprised that weasel is coming near our home when he doesn’t need to,” I say, snorting. “I’m going to have to put some pest spray outside the door to keep him at bay.”

Kennedy laughs and the sound is one of my favourites in the world. Unlike my wheezy laugh, she has the most child-like giggles ever. I don’t think she’ll ever grow out of it, and I love it. It’s also extremely contagious.

“You’re so dramatic,” she concedes when her laughter dies down.

“Dramatically necessary,” I correct, pinning her with a look before looking back at the ceiling. “Plus, you and Wren hardly like him, so don’t act like it’s just me.”

“He’s…fine,” she says through a sigh. I turn to her again, raising my eyebrow, silently urging her to go on. “He’s nice, okay? Like, really nice. And I know that you hate him because of your family feuds, and I respect that. You know, ‘Romeo and Juliet’ is Shakespeare’s greatest play, but he’s nice to me.”

I snort at her rambling. “I’m happy for you, Ken, truly. You’re just lucky you don’t have to put up with his dipshittery every day at school.”

She sulks, pouting. “I think you’re refusing to remember that day he brought us home from the bar.”

There is no way I’d be able to forget that day, no matter how drunk I was.

Wren had just found out some shitty news from her sister who had just told her she was pregnant, and we all went to a lowkey bar that didn’t check our IDs. Before we knew it, we were drunk-singing Taylor Swift songs on the karaoke machine. Wren called Miles to pick us up and Evan was already out with him, so they both helped us up to our apartment. It’s the bare minimum, but unfortunately, Kennedy’s standards aren’t the highest.

I distinctly remember frantically telling him not to dye his hair brown, no matter how much I loathe the fact that he’s blonde. He didn’t even seem to care. He told me that he’d basically do anything I asked him to and that confused the fuck out of me.

“Yeah, because he was there by proxy. If Wren hadn’t called Miles, he wouldn’t have been there,” I explain, trying to justify it. She makes an exaggerated sigh, looking away wistfully. “What are you trying to get at, Ken?”

“He just seemed sad that you weren’t here, that’s all,” she says. I really try to conjure up a picture of a sad or lost Evan and I come up with nothing.

“Evan Branson does not do ‘sad.’ He does a douche-bro face, stressed, and pissed. That’s it,” I say, almost laughing at the idea.

She shakes her head. “He also does a dreamy ‘I-miss-Scarlett’ face too,” she adds, grinning like an evil genius.

“Really? You better take a picture next time,” I mutter, hoping that’s the end of the conversation about him. I get up, going into the kitchen for a drink because just talking about him gets me hot and bothered. And not in a fun way.

“Why don’t you just sleep with him?” Kennedy shouts and I almost drop the glass I had to climb up onto the counter to get. We really need to reorganise these shelves.

“What?” I choke out.

“Yeah,” she begins as if that solves everything. “Just bang out all that sexual tension and see what happens. You can get it out of your systems.”

I bring my glass of water into the living room, sitting down next to her on the couch. “Ken, have you met me? I look like this and he’s all that. I’m not letting any of that near me. Plus, there is no sexual tension to bang out. You’re making that up.”

“Boo. You’re no fun anymore,” she says, slipping further back into the couch. “When did you turn into such a prude?”

“When I realised that I’d rather sit naked on a hot grill then let him anywhere near my private parts,” I say with a shudder for extra effect. Ken doesn’t take the hint to end the conversation and instead takes another deep sigh, batting her long eyelashes at me.

“He’s like a lost puppy trailing after you,” she whines. Since when was she such an Evan supporter? They must have all hopped on the bandwagon that I’ve missed because I can’t deal with this, as well as my already conflicting feelings about him.

“That’s what it looks like to you. He’s more of a leech, picking up on my every mistake and never letting me live it down.”

“You do the same thing to him. Minus the leech part,” she says, shuddering. She nudges me with her leg. “Come on, Scar. Just give in. I know you want to.”

I laugh. “How much is he paying you to say this?”

“Not nearly enough,” she murmurs, and I tilt my head, smirking. She barks out a laugh. “I’m kidding. I just think you guys could work well together if you weren’t so set on hating him.”

“We work together fine. Not everyone has to be best friends to make a decent team,” I say, and she nods, flicking her eyes towards the screen. “Okay, let’s see who is being voted off this week.”

I get another infectious giggle from her and we’re deep into our favourite reality TV show. This is how I want to spend my nights instead of worrying about what’s going to happen. Sometimes all I need is a hyperactive best friend and a so-bad-it’s-good TV show to laugh at.