The Bad Decisions Playlist Read Online Free PDF Page B

still late.”
    â€œPoint taken. Agreed. I also had some trouble getting my bike started, so that slowed me down a few minutes.”
    â€œFine. What did you go over in class?”
    â€œUh . . . Right. Class. I have to be honest. I sort of didn’t make it.”
    That penetrating stare again, making me squirm inwardly. She says, very deliberately, “What.”
    â€œI didn’t make it.”
    â€œYou blew it off.”
    â€œYes. True. You’ve never blown off a class?”
    I might as well have asked her if she’d ever killed and eaten a hobo.
    â€œI’m gonna take that as a no,” I say. “And you’ve never been late.”
    â€œI try not to be.”
    â€œI really
am
sorry about that, okay? You’ve never screwed up or broken a rule?”
    Stare.
    â€œNo,” I say, “of course not.”
    â€œTwenty-one minutes.”
    â€œRight. Sorry. Let’s start.”
    â€œFine. So​—”
    â€œOkay: The light is red, but there’s not a single car in sight. No cars at all. Do you cross?”
    â€œ
Argh!
Look, I get it, okay? You’re a rebel who rides a motorcycle and is too cool to do math because you’re going to ride off on your motorcycle and do rebel motorcycle things and you won’t need math.”
    â€œWhoa. Hold up. It’s only a 175 CC, so it barely qualifies as a motorcycle. The ‘CC’ in this case referring to​—”
    â€œThe cubic displacement. I
know.
”
    â€œOh, do you know motorcycles?”
    â€œNo, I know
math,
which is what we’re supposed to be working on.”
    â€œI bet Jack White or Ryan Adams or Conor Oberst isn’t that good at math.”
    â€œFantastic. Let’s see, are any of them here? Oops! Nope! Looks like it’s just us.”
    â€œWell, I’m going to be like them.”
    â€œWhat about your great career in lawn care?”
    â€œWell, yeah, of course. I figure after a few months of mowing lawns I should have several million bucks socked away. But honestly? Can I tell you a secret?”
    â€œUm . . . no?”
    â€œMy plan​—​which is a secret​—​is I’m going to be a singer-songwriter.”
    â€œA singer​—”
    â€œSongwriter. Yes.”
    â€œYou’re going to be a performer.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œOnstage.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œIn front of people.”
    â€œYes!”
    She looks at me evenly. Then shifts her gaze, mouth open slightly like she’s trying to figure out how to word something or whether to say it at all. She shakes her head and says, “Good luck with that.”
    I realize how I recognize her.
    Choir.
    She’s in the choir. She was one of the people left standing there on risers, humming and
oo
-ing endlessly while I was otherwise involved.
    My face is prickly hot.
    â€œSo. What chapter did they cover in class?” she says. “You don’t know.”
    â€œNo,” I mutter.
    â€œDidn’t think so. What do you want to work on? Quadratic equations? Factoring polynomials?”
    â€œI don’t know. Whatever. It’s all good. Let’s go. Boom.”
    â€œRight. Well.”
    She claps the book shut and stands up.
    â€œThis,” she says, “is not going to work.”
    âˆ—  ∗  ∗
    She doesn’t say another word as she crams the books into her backpack and walks out of the room, ignoring my
Aw, c’mon
s and
Look, let’s just start again
s. No, that’s inaccurate. She says one thing, to herself: “I’m such a fool.”
    â€œI signed a contract!” I say. “You don’t understand! I have to do this! You can’t leave me like this!”
    She leaves me like that.
    I listen to the squeaking of her shoes receding down the hallway. Then I clap my hands together and announce to the empty room, “Fantastic! Okay! Let’s go repay