Page 23 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

Then, Max and Shun arrived. Max, of course, had his arm lazily draped around his girlfriend like a true romance novel bad boy, and Shun—who was actually on the list—gave me a playful flying kiss before stepping onto the bus.

“Max,” I groaned. “You're not on the list.”

“I am if you look harder,” he replied with a wink.

“That’s not how lists work.”

“That’s not how confidence works, Clark.”

He was already on the bus. I considered throwing the clipboard at his head, but physics dictated it would just be a wasted effort.

At least the next group was normal. Fred, the wildlife club captain assistant, walked in with Mia, Joy’s girlfriend, who was hauling half the documentary equipment with her. Joy sauntered in last, looking far too amused by my suffering.

“You look stressed,” she said. “You should try yoga.”

“I should try kicking people off this bus,” I muttered, readjusting my grip on the clipboard like it was a lifeline.

And then—of course—Ethan showed up.

He strolled over with that chill demonic aura like he had all the time in the world, stretching like he’d just had the best sleep of his life. Which was unfair because I had been up since 4 a.m. making sure everything was perfect—double-checking the budget, rereading the itinerary, even calculating the best fuel efficiency routes for the bus.

“Morning, bestie,” he greeted, slapping me on the back.

“I hate you.”

“You say that, but I’m still your favorite.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re not even close, and you’re late.”

Ethan smirked. “Hey, I’m here, aren’t I? Besides, I figured you'd need time to recover from, you know… wrecking my unspeakably expensive car.”

A few jocks ooooh’d dramatically from the bus.

My face burned, and I clenched my jaw. Public attention. My mortal enemy. “Get. In.”

Ethan winked and strutted past without so much as a ‘thank you for coming up with this brilliant plan.’

And finally, Mr. Dax arrived.

Mr. Dax, our oversized dwarf of a chaperone, stomped over like he was about to announce an execution. He was barely five feet tall but built like he could wrestle a bear and win.

He climbed onto the bus, scanned the passengers, and then turned to me with an unreadable expression.

“Clark.”

I straightened, stomach knotting. “Sir?”

He inhaled deeply. Then bellowed, “WHY ARE THERE SO MANY BEEFCAKES ON THIS BUS?!”

The bus went silent.

Mr. Dax’s eyes swept over the jocks. “I count twenty-two. We’re two over.” He cracked his knuckles. “Fix it.”

The jocks all looked at each other like they were in a survival game.

Mr. Dax stomped his foot. “TWO OF YOU GET OFF. NOW.”

The first jock to crack was “Lillian.” He practically leaped out of his seat and sprinted off the bus.

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