Page 33 of Don't Love the Boy Next Door
He has this gleam in his eyes, like he thinks he’s better than me, and that patronizing tone? That just makes me want to yell at the world.
“Shut up, this is all your fault,” I hiss.
He faces the class with a wide smile, but I can see the corners of his mouth tighten, like he wants to yell back at me. But of course he wouldn’t. Ethan Palmer is a cool and collected and perfect guy who never loses his temper. That’s why he always has girls wrapped around his finger. Gag.
Mrs. Holden frowns as she glances from me to my jerk of a partner. Shoot, if I don’t continue the presentation we’ll fail the report.
Pushing all the negativity aside, I continue from where he left off. I might have given him the boring parts, you know, because I can’t stand him, and now I’m stuck reading them. Oh my gosh. Did he do that on purpose?
He has the funny and interesting parts, but something tells me he would have captivated this audience if he was talking about a rotten potato.
What is it about this guy that makes people—not me—want to stop what they’re doing and listen to him?
“Very good!” Mrs. Holden claps once we’re done.
I have no idea how we got through that. The only thing I could think about was that he messed the entire thing up and I can’t wait to be done with him.
“Good job,” he says as we return to our seats.
I ignore him, plopping down at my desk and staring straight ahead. A huge feeling of relief washes over me. It’s done. Weprobably got an A and now I don’t need to see or talk to Ethan Palmer as long as I live.
It’ll be a little hard, since my bestie is in a band with The Jerk, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s wallpaper.
Chapter Twelve
Eric
I hang up and toss my phone across my desk. Another setback. The manager of the club only hires people who are over twenty-one because he serves alcohol at his club. And he’s not sure his patrons would appreciate hearing kids perform.
Leaning back in my chair, I rub my hands down my face. Ethan and I used to have a manager who took care of booking gigs and all that stuff, but we always got into arguments because we cared about different things. He mostly cared about the money and our image, while we cared more about the actual music and making our fans happy. Eventually, we fired him and I decided to be manager. Which only adds to my pile of stress. But at least I know the band is in good hands.
I haven’t been able to book us a gig since the HotSpot, and some fans are already demanding we perform again. But with no interested parties, it’s kind of impossible. Which sucks, because I finally finished the new song and it’s great. It’s an actual love song this time, one of the best I’ve ever written. Every part of me itches to share it with the world, but I don’t know when that will happen.
My computer dings with a video call. I perk up when I realize who the caller is and quickly answer it. “Hey, Dad!” I greet when his face appears on the screen. It feels like ages since I’ve seen him.
“Eric!” he says.
There’s a lot of noise in the background, like usual. He’s either on the road or at a hotel with his bandmates. And they’re always pretty noisy. Seems he’s in a lounge now, probably the one at the hotel.
Ethan and I look like our dad, with the same dark hair and blue eyes. We used to look at pictures of him when we were younger and were amazed at how similar we appear. If we were to go back in time, we could be triplets.
Dad’s hair is long, reaches his mid-back. I think part of the reason Ethan cuts his hair is because he doesn’t want to look like our dad.
“How’s it going, kiddo?” he asks.
“Great,” I say. “I’m happy you called.”
“Me, too, son.” He beams.
One of his bandmates sticks his head in front of the camera. “Who are ya talking to there, Miles?”
“One of my boys. You remember my drummer Larry, don’t you, Eric?”
“Yeah. Hey,” I say.
He chuckles. “Fine-looking boy there, Miles. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh?”
“What are you talking about? He’s the spitting image of his mother.”
