Page 21 of To Love or to Lose
“Well, in London we don’t have dances like Homecoming or Prom, so I’m asking, what does a theme mean in terms of the dance?”
“The theme decides the decorations and overalllookof the dance.” Jameson nods. “Let’s start with a list of ideas,” I say.
After the Class Officers meeting, where the freshmen asked too many questions and the juniors barely participated, I was surprisingly grateful to be going to AP Psych.
“Genevieve,” someone calls as I walk up the stairs toward the third floor.I know who’s calling for me; there’s only one person who isn’t a teacher that calls me Genevieve.
“Jameson,” I sigh in a greeting as I turn on the steps. “What do you want?”
“Nice to see you too.” He smiles almosttoohappily.
“Is your ego really inflated enough that you expect the people you completely fuck over to greet you with kisses and warm welcomes?” I ask.
People watch as they pass on the stairs; I already feel like a spectacle. “You know what, I have a class to get to.” I swivel my body back toward the steps leading upward.
“Genevieve.” He catches me by the wrist.
I rip it out of his grasp. “Haven’t I already told you once not to fucking touch me?”
He pulls his hands back toward his sides. “Sorry, sorry.”
I take a few steps at a time, trying my best not to trip in my Mary Janes while also keeping my skirt at an appropriate length.
“Why are you so rude?”
I turn toward him in disdain. “I am not required to be polite to you because you have a penis.”
Jameson Beaumont is not a man, he is aboy—a boy that has absolutely no power over me.
“Can you stop acting like I’m some sexist prick?” He asks.. “I need to talk to you, and you’re acting like it’s a crime.”
“Talk,” I wave him on. “If you need to talk to me so badly, then go ahead,talk.”
“Genevieve,” he sighs. “Please, come with me.”
I consider his expression, something resembling hurt is in his eyes. “What class do you have?”
“AP Psychology,” he answers.
“Great.” I continue up the stairs, waving for him to follow. “Talk until we get there.”
He nods, taking three steps at a time to catch up to me. “I’m sorry for what happened on Friday. I did not intend to make you feel like I don’t care for the cause you’re fighting for,” he saysbreathlessly once we’re on the same step. His voice is almost pained.
“Wow, that felt so sincere,” I flutter my eyelashes in forged admiration before resting my face entirely. “You should really take up acting.”
“Genevieve, I’m being as heartfelt as possible. I don’t want you to hate me, and I understand why you’re hurt, but I had nothing to do with it.”
“Why did you come to America?” I stop in the empty hallway, turning to face him.
“What?”
“Why. Did. You. Come. To. America?” I ask again.
He looks torn, like he’s debating whether he should tell the truth. “My dad made me.”
“Why?”
“He thought I needed something different.” I can tell that he’s not telling the whole truth by his clipped response, but I don’t mention it.
