Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

backward and forwards with Miss Granger, the PE teacher who needs to wear a better sports bra. Social death.

Way back, there was a brief time when I did sometimes try to mix. It was when we were about thirteen and people started having parties. I thought it would be cool to be part of that, you know, have a bigger group to arrive with and dance with and stuff, but Megan didn’t like it if I spoke to other girls. She said we didn’t need their dumb-arse mixer socials, and then when Rids and I got together I really never again questioned wanting to spend a moment with anyone other than the two of them.

Rids.

Ridley. Is he even my Rids anymore? I don’t think so. I have sent him, like, a thousand messages and he hasn’t answered one of them. I know I should be acting cooler and I should be the one ignoring him, but I can’t! He, apparently, can ignore me, though, which suggests he’s not my Rids. In any way, shape or form. I have to get used to that, I suppose. Yet. When I think of him, I sort of swell and sweat inside. I know that sounds so gross but it’s actually awesome. Or at least it was. Now my physical reaction is more like feeling someone is holding me under freezing water. I’m panicked. Flaying. Drowning.

I guess that’s Dad’s point. He knows Mum won’t let me be off school forever so he’s sending me to school with ten totes so I can find ten new friends. I am not above buying friends. Monarchs have bought armies in the past. History doesn’t have a problem with that. Whoever says money doesn’t buy happiness is simply not shopping in the right place.

“How is she supposed to get those to school?” asks Mum. True, Dad could barely get them through the doorway. I can’t quite see myself waltzing into maths with them bundled under my arms. “It’s a crazy idea,” she adds with a tut.

“What did you get my friends?” asks Logan.

“Video games,” replies Dad. He holds up a game bag that is bulging with blue and green plastic boxes.

“Cool!” It sometimes makes me feel sick with envy how easy Logan finds life, but I also love it about him.

“I got a selection because I didn’t know which of your friends had what.”

Mum takes the bag off Dad before Logan can even get his hands on it. She peers inside. “All of these are certified for over sixteen or over eighteen,” she grumbles.

“That’s what they’re all playing,” points out Dad.

“Maybe, but there is no way you can hand them out to his friends. Leave the goodies at home, kids.”

“What, we can’t give them to our mates?” Logan, who actually has mates, does the thing he always does when he’s fed up—his body sort of slouches extra-strength, basically it collapses in on itself.

“Maybe, at some point. Their birthdays or something, or after I’ve discussed it with their mothers. Now get a move on, you’ll miss the bus.”

I pack one of the Michael Kors totes with my schoolbooks—I pick the pink/fawn combo—and then I hide two more in my sports bag.

“It’s not PE today, is it?” asks Mum. Her vigilance is usually spasmodic and always infuriating.

“Taking my kit in in case I decide to go to training,” I lie.

She beams at me. “Oh that’s great, Emily. The sooner you get back into the usual rhythm, the better it will be.”

She’s like one thousand per cent wrong about this. Things can never be as they were before. It’s stupid imagining they can. The usual rhythm is dead and gone. Because the usual rhythm used to beat around Ridley and Megan. Why can’t she see that? I don’t enlighten her. I smile at her, kiss her on the cheek and dash for the door.

When Logan and I get on the bus, I swear it goes quiet for a moment. Everyone is gawping at us. For a split second I panic, I daren’t breathe. Maybe the silence is ugly, and everyone is going to react the way Ridley and Megan did to the news of our win. But then Logan’s friends start cheering, whooping and chanting, “Rich boy, rich boy!” I read the energy on the bus, concerned that we are going to get ambushed or something, but the mood is definitely celebratory. Logan’s mates are mentally happy for him. Like real mates are supposed to be. They can’t sit still but are up and down off their seats like they are on speed. Logan punches the air over and over again and other people start to do the same. He raises his hands above his head like a champion and people start to sing the Rocky theme tune. Even though none of us were born when the film was made and none of us has ever seen it, we know it’s sort of the iconic song of winners. He walks toward the back of the bus and as he makes his way down the aisle, people clap him on the back and shout out, “You lucky bastard!” But in a good way.

I follow him, riding the uncomplicated tide of happiness. I’m thinking he’ll still be the only person I can sit with, but halfway down the bus, Scarlett Sorella says to me, “Cool bag. I love it.” She’s smiling in a really friendly way, so I don’t think she’s being sarcastic.

“Thanks,” I mutter cautiously. Scarlett Sorella is in a few of my classes, but we haven’t really spoken much before. She’s pretty and cool. She’s an excellent hockey player.

“Hey, sit with me.” She is sitting with Liv Spencer, one of her two best friends. Scarlett throws Liv a move-your-ass look, and Liv gets the hint. She scurries into a seat in front, but she doesn’t do it in a sulky way; she beams at me, as though she’s happy to be kicked out of her seat for me. I slide in