Page 53 of The Underachiever’s Guide to Love and Saving the World

COURTNEY

While Bryce was off negotiating with giants, I assembled a dream team—if that dream was one of those feverish ones where you had to give a presentation, and then you looked down to find you weren’t wearing pants.

The problem with being nice was you couldn’t tell people no, which was why my team consisted of the first four individuals who’d volunteered for the job. Even worse, I couldn’t suggest they spend some time training because I couldn’t hurt their feelings.

I’d gathered the group at a pub by the time Bryce returned from rescuing the blacksmith’s daughter (it turned out she was just going through A Phase that involved hanging out with her giant friends).

I’d recruited Cuthbert the swordmaster, and then I’d been approached by Winston, who was still bound and determined to use his life for good after narrowly escaping what we now knew to be Greg the mouse’s evil clutches.

He’d been desperate to help, and I quite literally could not tell him no.

And I’d so wished to tell him no. Then, of course, there was also the blacksmith and his daughter, whose name was Chandelier Dew Bloodlava, but I’d taken to calling her Pants because she wore pants and would not shut up about how that made her different from other girls.

Bryce sat at the far end of the table. He looked at each person sitting around us, then at me. “What an excellent band of heroes you’ve gathered, Courtney.” He smiled kindly. I didn’t miss the elite level of sarcasm he sneaked under the hero potion.

I let my face remain in the neutral but pleasant expression that had become its natural state, completely replacing my previous resting bitch face.

“Everyone, this is Bryce.” I was going to leave it at that, but my mouth continued on without me.

“Why don’t we all go around the room and introduce ourselves?

” I wanted to punch myself for suggesting the universally most hated group icebreaker activity.

“An inspired idea,” Bryce said, that cheesy smile still plastered to his face.

I tried to drain my glass of ale, but my mouth only allowed small, responsible sips. I’d be enduring this hell sober.

“What kinds of skills do you all have?” Bryce asked, and though he smiled indulgently at each member of our crew like he was the father of the Brady Bunch, I imagined deep down he was on the cusp of a panic attack and wondering what was wrong with me that this was the team I’d assembled.

I tried to send him telepathic messages. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

The smile slapped across his face didn’t budge. All my usual methods of cheering him up wouldn’t work anymore. There would be no more scaring the fear out of him, no more teasing him.

Winston fitted his hands together and shrugged modestly. “As far as skills, well, I don’t want to brag none, but it was my rhubarb strudel that took first place in the village fall festival.”

Bryce and I waited for him to say more. Hoped he’d say more.

Winston did not say more.

Cuthbert leaned forward. “He’s being humble.”

Bryce’s smile widened, a silent Thank god screaming out of his eyeballs.

Cuthbert lowered his voice. “Blue ribbon winner five years running .” Nodding, he sat back, brows raised with significance.

“You bake pies,” Bryce stated with a bit too much cheer.

Winston puffed up. “Strudel, sire.”

“ Strudel ,” Bryce said exuberantly.

I turned to Cuthbert. “We know you can hold a sword. Any other skills we should know about? Maybe something niche and special that will come in handy later on?”

Cuthbert blushed. “I’ve been told I give excellent massages.”

“Okay,” I said, voice an octave higher than normal. “Cool, cool, cool. So, more handsy than handy. Amazing. Perfect. All skills have value. You’re such an asset.” I turned to the blacksmith’s daughter. “What about you?”

“I wear trousers,” she said, as though that one attribute qualified her to save the world.

I blinked. This poor misled girl. She’d someday learn that wearing any form of pants not preceded by the word pajama was literally the worst.

“So,” Bryce said, “we have a baker, a masseuse, and a girl who wears pants.” He turned to the blacksmith. With the blacksmith’s big, burly frame and rough disposition, I was sure Bryce thought he was our group’s saving grace. “What about you?”

The blacksmith looked surprised, running a hand through his beard. “Ah. I thought you knew. I did send you to fight for my daughter on my behalf.”

“What are you talking about?” Bryce asked.

The blacksmith cracked his knuckles. “I’m a pacifist.”

A long silence.

Winston leaned in eagerly. “What is our plan to obliterate the Evil One’s army?” He smashed his fist on the table.

The blacksmith jumped. I did a double take when Bryce didn’t even flinch. But of course, heroes didn’t do things like flinch. The thought of him enduring a silent flinch all by himself made my heart twinge. That was the problem with being perfect. No one could see you.

It took a second for me to realize everyone was waiting on me for an answer. In the corner of my eye, I noticed Pants on the other side of the table beginning to manspread (thanks to her pants), slowly taking over the bench as she glared.

“I…” I glanced at Bryce. He sat straight, the picture of supposed confidence, but didn’t say anything. I had no idea how to go about saving the world either. “We will crush the undead scum like the vermin they are,” I announced with gusto.

Amazingly, everyone nodded, grinning like that was a valid plan.

Great. Perfect.

“And how will we do that, my lady?” Cuthbert asked. His enthusiasm was insatiable.

“By using inspiration from mighty warriors in days gone by.” Fake it till you make it had gotten me shockingly far in life, so why stop now? “You guys ever heard of Leeroy Jenkins?”

Attention glued to me, they all huddled in, except for Pants, who’d taken way more than her fair share of the bench by now. Cuthbert and Winston had to keep wiggling over to accommodate her, but their earnest expressions never wavered.

“I do believe I ’ave herd of ol’ Leeroy,” the blacksmith mused. “In that new ballad. ’Eard a bard sing it last week, I did.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Bryce said, his unhinged smile still stapled to his face.

“No, I think he’s right!” Winston said. “Weren’t he the one who single-handedly fought off the trolls at—”

Pants manspread a little too far and Cuthbert toppled off the end of the bench. He amiably crossed his legs and sat on the floor as everyone else continued their conversation about Leeroy Jenkins.

“Okay, okay,” I called over the increasingly impassioned discussion of a man whose one accomplishment had been shouting his own name while playing a video game and charging into a mass of enemies, resulting in the death of himself and his whole group of friends.

Maybe not the best person to emulate. “The point is, if you call upon Leeroy Jenkins’s name in your time of need, legend has it you will become unstoppable, and everyone will live in wonder of your great works for eons to come. ”

Everyone whispered Leeroy Jenkins’s name in awed and hushed tones.

This plan couldn’t possibly fail.