Page 15 of The Rebel (Covington Prep: The Girls We Love #7)

JADE

“You don’t have to give me a ride home,” Valencia said, striding down the hallway with purpose, her long legs trying to overtake me. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m definitely not your babysitter, but hey, I’m going home now, and so are you, so why not ride with me?”

I pushed open the door, causing her to pause.

I gestured for her to go first and she hurried past me, murmuring thanks.

Mom had texted me in last period to ask if it was possible for me to bring Valencia home, that Vice Principal Hayman had contacted her over a ‘minor’ incident.

I’d noticed Valencia come into Study Hall mid lesson, but I didn’t pay much attention.

Often at the beginning of semester kids were still figuring out their class schedules, but seemed she’d been in some sort of trouble.

“So, what happened back there? In Hayman’s office?”

She had surged ahead, but at my question, Valencia stopped and waited for me—and proceeded to go on a rant.

“The sub sent me out of class on a discipline slip. She’s like 90 years old and said I’d disrupted the class because I corrected the way she said my name and didn’t give her my phone.

What a joke! It’s not like I had drugs, or a knife or threw a chair at anyone. ”

Wow, I’d never seen Valencia fired up before, but it’s like she was ready to boil over.

“Talk about an overreaction. Now I have to stay after school and help in the art room for a whole week. Mrs. Fox should be in a retirement village. And she probably needs hearing aids.”

“Mrs. Fox? I don’t think she’s that bad,” I said.

“She is!” Valencia disagreed strongly, scrunching her nose in a cute way. “She’s about a hundred years old.”

I shouldn’t have found it funny, but I couldn’t stop a snort of laughter. “You know you aren’t supposed to use your phone in class, right?” I pointed out.

“Mrs. Bullock lets us keep our phones,” she said adamantly, “and besides it was Paris’s fault. He’d been sending me photos of the plane leaving.”

“They’re on their way now?”

“As we speak,” she huffed.

“Hey, over this way,” I nodded in the direction of my truck. Valencia had a moment of indecision, like she’d remembered she didn’t want a ride.

But right then my name was called across the parking lot, a bunch of my friends hanging around Weston’s car.

I clicked the remote to unlock my truck and said, “Go ahead, I won’t be a sec,” and I jogged across to my friends.

“What’s up?” One eye was on Valencia, relieved to see her hopping up into the front seat. A strange little shiver ran through me as I could see everyone watching, like proud that she was getting into my truck. Weird.

“What’s with that?” Jordy asked with a wry smile.

For a moment, I considered explaining about her discipline slip, but realized a simpler explanation was sufficient.

“Paris is playing over in Europe, so Mom offered to have Valencia stay with us for a few weeks,“ I said, which covered everything anyone needed to know.

“When are we having our Brit night?” Lucy asked, falling into an English accent. “Fish and chips and Bridgerton and cups of tea and speaking like this?”

The others laughed, and I rolled my eyes. “Whenever. But no Bridgerton. You sort it, Lulu.”

“Downton Abbey then?” Lucy teased.

“NO!” I said, an unmistakable definitive negative.

Lucy laughed. “This weekend we’re going snow tubing. Maybe afterward?”

“Yep, I’ll check with Mom, but sounds good,” I said and fist bumped a few of the kids before skipping back to my truck like a kid excited to go for ice cream.

“Sorry about that,” I said as I jumped in and clicked my seat belt. I noticed Valencia had loosened her tie.

Turning to me with a frown, she seemed a little anxious. “Do you think Mrs. Hayman told your Mom about my discipline slip?”

“Uh huh,” I nodded. “She did. Mom called me.”

“Dang.” She pouted, which was also kind of cute.

“Yep.”

“You think she’ll tell my parents?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Are you worried about it?”

“It just wasn’t a big deal,” she said, shaking her head. “Geez, it’s like drama for the sake of drama. Mrs. Fox probably wanted less kids in her class so she could sit at the front and crochet.”

I spluttered a laugh. “Crochet?”

“Yes, crochet,” she said, pulling down the sun visor and looking at herself in the mirror.

I checked for traffic around me and pulled out of the parking space.

“Do you think this makeup is natural looking?” she asked.

I came to a stop at the school gate and turned to see her face held still and expressionless as if she wanted me to inspect it.

Well, I’d already been mesmerized by it the day of the nosebleed, and I had no problem studying her dark brown eyes framed by long eyelashes, or the splatter of freckles across her cute nose, or her sweet heart-shaped lips, rosy and smooth. “What makeup?”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, brightening instantly, and again she went on a rave.

“Mrs. Hayman told me off for wearing too much makeup. It’s like a tiny bit of mascara and eyeliner.

” She demonstrated a small gap between her thumb and first finger to show me just how little makeup she did wear.

“I mean I don’t even have any foundation or highlighter or lipstick on, like all the seniors do.

” She pouted again. “Seniors get away with so much.”

The urgent toot of a horn and a rev of an engine sounded and in the rearview mirror I saw Lucy’s car right up behind me. I laughed, purposely not moving when she laid on the horn, and as a joke, I retaliated with a few sharp toots myself.

“You better hope Mrs. Fox isn’t around,” Valencia mumbled dryly. “She’ll probably give you a discipline slip. Excessive use of the horn or something.”

“Mrs. Fox isn’t your favorite person, is she?”

Valencia sighed heavily and clenched her fists tightly, like she was ready to punch somebody. I needed to lighten the mood, her mood.

“So, where’s Paris’s first tournament?”

“Paris.”

“Yeah, Paris.”

“Paris,” she said again.

I laughed, “Like you mean in Paris?”

“Yep. Or just outside it. It’s an indoor tournament.”

“Paris is awesome,” I said, “the city, I mean.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Yeah, I got to travel a bit.”

“Where else did you go?” she asked.

“Berlin, Copenhagen, Barcelona, Amsterdam. And I went to Wales and up to Scotland.”

“What was your favorite place?”

“Ah, I really liked London and Barcelona.”

“Well, London might be okay, but I wouldn’t recommend calling your kid Barcelona.”

“Huh?” I threw her a curious look.

“Paris and I got named after Mom and Dad’s favorite cities. And look where that got me.” She tapped her fists together and muttered in outrage, “Mrs. Fox called me Valen- cha! ”

I grinned. “Hey, I know your pain. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve been called Jay. People think Jade is a girl’s name.”

“See, that’s just rude,” she said with a frown. “I like the name Jade. And it matches your eyes.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling came over me knowing that Valencia had noticed the color of my eyes.

Wow, talk about clutching at straws—seemed I was desperate to make an impression on her—even if it was my eye color that had caught her eye.

It was ridiculous that I’d traveled across the world, gone to a school in another country and met so many awesome people, yet nothing compared to the girl next door complimenting me on my name and eye color.

I kept the conversation to Paris and his tennis for the rest of the ride home. That was a safe topic while I tried to understand that buzz, that high coursing through me. Valencia waited while I grabbed my backpack from the backseat and followed me into the house.

“Do you need a tour?” I asked, putting on an English accent and adding a grand gesture like I was a butler.

I’d been invited to the house of one of the boys in my class, and though it looked like an ordinary old building on the outside, inside it had been crazy opulent, like the Downton Abbey show, complete with a butler who took my jacket—or house manager as William had called him—and a housekeeper who served us food.

“I should go and feed Volley first,” she said.

“You don’t want a snack?” She shook her head, which brought me back to earth with a thud. She liked my name, my eyes were green and that was all. I’d read too much into it. “Or to see your room?”

“Ah, yeah,” she said, “I should see where I’m staying, shouldn’t I?”

“Follow me.” I did that butler thing again—who knows why—pointing down the hallway.

And because I’d started it, I kept it going.

“To the right, m’lady.” Geez, I needed to remember I was back home.

She was going to think I was showing off or something.

I cringed as I remembered what I’d said earlier, “Oh I’ve been to Paris and Berlin and Amsterdam and Copenhagen. ” What a jerk!

A red suitcase and a white duffel bag were next to the bed. I opened the closet doors, pointing out the storage, and then to the ensuite door. “And that’s your bathroom.”

“Cool,” she said, her eyes tracking around the room. Basically it was still a bland room, but now with a white cover and bright fluffy pillows on the bed. “Thanks. I’ll go and feed Volley now.”

Not bothering to unpack, she spun around and headed out the door, her backpack still on her shoulders.

I thought about offering to go with her but was left in her dust. The front door closed and I moved across to the window, standing in the shadow of the curtains to see her walking down the path which led to the garden.

Our backyard was a big space of lawn and flower beds and beyond that an orchard of established apple and pear trees.

Mom and Dad had added some peach and persimmon trees and a small greenhouse for growing vegetables.

I don’t know if anything was growing in it now.