Page 22 of Practice Makes Perfect
six
EM
Exhaustion has officially becomemy personality.
I slump onto the couch in my dorm room, still dressed in my dance teacher uniform—black leggings, black crop-top, and a cut-off sweatshirt with “MOVE IT” emblazoned across the front. My feet are screaming after eight straight hours of demonstrating pliés and correcting the posture of tiny humans.
Who decided two jobs was a good idea anyway?
The TV remote feels unreasonably heavy in my hand as I flick through channels, finally landing on my guilty pleasure:Love Match, a reality show where attractive idiots pretend to fall in love while being filmed twenty-four/seven. My grandmother and I usually watch this trash together, but lately, I’ve been “busy.”
And by busy, I mean deliberately overworking myself into a state where higher brain functions shut down, leaving just enough mental capacity to brush my teeth and collapse into bed. And, as if on cue, my phone pings with a text from my grandmother, further convincing me she’s got my dorm room bugged.
I open it:
Why did Brett choose Tiffany? What a moron!
I sigh. My grandma has been deliberately sending spoilers all day in protest of me not watching with her.
I text back:
Haven’t watched yet. Just got home from dance school.
She responds faster than elderly hands should be able to type:
You’re working too hard.
I toss my phone aside without responding.
She’s right, of course, but I’m not about to admit it.
On screen, Brett—the blandly handsome guy with abs for days and the personality of unbuttered toast—is indeed professing his undying love to Tiffany, who’s crying perfect mascara-stained tears. I can barely focus on their nauseating display because my brain keeps short-circuiting to a different romance.
The one I ran away from two weeks ago like a complete and total coward.
I’ve dubbed it the “Lincident,” which seems too cutesy and dismissive for something that’s actually consuming my every waking thought. Lea and I have spent the past fourteen days on what we’ve optimistically called “Operation Hot Nerd,” which should really be renamed “Operation Spectacular Failure.”
It’s become a running joke between us, except it’s not funny when you’re trying to escape thoughts of a certain hockey player whose lips felt like?—
Nope. Not going there.
The door swings open, and Lea walks in wearing distressed jeans and an oversized white sweater. Her dark curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun that somehow looks deliberately styled rather than the rat’s nest mine would become. I pause the show and turn to face her, knowing what’s coming.
“Whoa,” she says, taking in my sprawled form. “You look…”
“If you say ‘tired’ again, I will throw this remote at your head,” I warn.
“I was going to say ‘comfortable’… but youdohave bags under your eyes.”
They’re Prada, thanks for noticing.” I smirk. “I need the money.”
“Bullshit.” Lea perches on the edge of the couch and crosses her arms. “You’re not even spending money on dates, given you refuse to ask Linc out again and seeing as Operation Hot Nerd has a current success rate of negative twelve percent. So is working so hard when classesjuststarted up wise?”
“We found that one guy?—”
“The one who asked if ADHD was contagious? Yeah, real winner.”
I groan and pull a couch cushion over my face. The truth is embarrassingly simple: I’ve been hoping that if I keep myself exhausted twenty-four/seven, I won’t have mental space to think about Linc. It hasn’t worked, as evidenced by the fact that he continues to pop into my mind at the most inconvenient moments.
