Trish's POV
The pain was a dull, throbbing drumbeat against the silence of the living room. It was the only sound louder than my own frantic heartbeat. Joseph, who had hauled my dead weight and my throbbing ankle all the way from the market, sat there, holding a first aid box like a competent EMT, and yet, the moment he started roughly treating my legs, the mask of the 'Good Samaritan' slipped.
"What was that, Joseph! Ouchhh! That hurttt so baddd!" I yelped, pulling my leg back.
He glanced up, a flash of malicious amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he drawled, his lips curving into a slow, mischievous smile that did nothing to soothe my nerves.
"I just wanted you to deeply feel how it was to get slapped." he smiked.
"What!"
"Yeah, my cheeks still hurt. Just look at my poor face," he whined, dramatically turning his head.
I looked, and a wave of guilt, quickly chased by a perverse satisfaction, hit me. His left cheek was still painted a livid red, and I distinctly remembered the sting of my nails. It felt good to see the evidence of my earlier defiance, even as the consequence – my twisted ankle throbbed in protest.
"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" I cried out, almost feeling guilty now.
"Look at my amazing face, you ruined it," he kept up the celebrity-style whining, even though he really did look unfairly handsome despite the injury.
"Okay, okay… fine. I already said I was sorry, countless times! What do you want me to do?" I asked, desperate to end the theatrics.
The moment the words, the fateful words, were out, his eyes snapped to mine. That alarming, predatory, mischievous look was back. He still held my legs, his touch suddenly making my skin crawl. Miss Britney, his mom, was gone for a couple more days. Being alone with the bad boy, the arrogant, obnoxious everything that was Joseph, felt suddenly dangerous. I pushed back, shifting on the couch, pulling my legs away from his hands.
No one, not even Miss Britney, truly knew the depth of the enigma that was her son. First, the aggressive harassment, the pressure for s*x, the bitterness. Now, the rescue, the care, the sudden, bizarre switch.
A piercing silence fell. I waited, praying his request wasn't the ugly thing I feared. Not that Joseph.
"As you know, the summer's about to end and school's about to reopen, and we're about to enter Senior Year," he said, his voice now unnervingly calm.
Please don't. I don't have the strength to resist him now. My ankle is killing me, I thought, my mind racing.
"Please, Trish, my life depends on this… on you. I really need this. I really need you to…" He stopped, struggling, the words caught in his throat.
Oh God, here we go, I braced myself: Pls tell me it's not s*x…pls tell me it's not s*x…no no no no… pls tell me it's not s*x.
"Please, Trish… You have to?" he begged again, practically pleading.
"What is it, Joseph!" I sparked, not wanting to hear the sickening proposition.
He took a deep breath, and then the words tumbled out, shyly, almost embarrassed.
"Well, I… I need you to do… my holiday project." He looked everywhere but at me.
"My grades depend on this, Trish. And I don't think I can do it myself. In fact, whether I graduate depends on this. Please, Trish, you have to help me."
WHAT!!
That was it? No demand for intimacy? Just a demand for academic labor? I was utterly stunned. The relief was immense, quickly replaced by a furious indignation at the audacity. Why did it take him that long, that struggle, to ask for homework help? And how did he even know I was intelligent enough to do it?
"Why are you telling me to do your holiday project?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Who says I'm a brilliant student?"
"Of course you are, Trish," he sprung up, suddenly energetic. "You're one of the top students among all sophomore classes combined."
"How did you know?"
He shrugged, his bad-boy façade firmly back in place.
"Well, I did my research. I want to be a top student too," he groaned dramatically.
"Okay, but I'm not helping you," I stated plainly, relishing the hurt look that crossed his face.
After the hell he had put me through since I arrived, treating me like a disposable object, now he wanted my help? No way.
"But you said you'll do anything for me if I forgive you!" he yelled, frustrated.
"Yeah, anything but your holiday project," I said, giving him a small, secret smirk.
It felt incredible. I was the one in control now. He was the one underneath me, figuratively begging.
"Well, I also found out something," he smirked back, an ominous glint in his eyes.
Uh oh.
"Apparently, you would have been the student with the overall best performance, not only among all sophomore year classes but the entire Mthland High," he said, speaking like a meticulous investigator piecing together a crime.
"You were only one percent short from the highest in sophomore classes and apparently three percent short from the overall best student with the highest grade, who was a first year."
"So? What are you getting at? I don't have to be the best. I just have to do great, that's all."
He tilted his head, then leaned in, reverting back to the noisy, irritating investigator persona.
"I also found that in your student profile, you want to be an Author. An Author who applied for a huge Authors Program in New York that only accepts recent high school graduates across the country with a certain incredibly good high school grade." He muttered the last part, now sitting dangerously close to me on the couch.
This was serious. How did he know my secret plans? How did he get his hands on my student profile, which should only be in the principal's office?
"What were you doing with my student profile?" I barked in curiosity, forgetting the pain for a second. "How did you get it?"
"Well, Trish, I'll never say."
"Okay." I cooled off. "So, what are you really getting at? Is this all just talk?" I asked, playing indifferent.
"The point is you need me, Trish." He paused for maximum effect. "You're just too bad at sports. That's why you're not getting the grade every incredibly brilliant student on earth desires. It's because you're so bad at sports; you can only rely on Chemistry and other stupid stuff."
He sounded like a true, unserious student, but he was right. Painfully right.
I was bad at sports. If not for my abysmal P.E. grade, I would have had the highest marks in the whole school. I was entering Senior Year. My dreams could be crushed if I didn't deal with the 'Not Good at Sports' problem. The irony wasn't lost on me; if I was good at sports, I wouldn't be sitting here with a cramped ankle right now.
"Okay." I took a long, thoughtful breath. "What do you want now?" I asked, bracing myself.
"Well… luckily, I'm good at sports. Too good. I can train you. I can even be your partner during the upcoming physical test when the new semester reopens. Of course, you'd have to help me, only with my holiday project…" he finished with a triumphant smirk.
He had me. He knew it.
I gave it a long, agonizing thought. Helping him with his project would surely open the door for more demands, making him a permanent burden. But if I wanted my dreams of becoming a renowned author to remain within reach, I had to swallow my pride and endure him.
At least, we were finally having a sane conversation. Talking like reluctant colleagues, not enemies. But I wasn't naive. I knew that with obnoxious guys like Joseph, they only shed their 'bad boy' scales for as long as it suited them.
I had the rest of the night, and then a day or two more, to find out who the real Joseph Roland was... after all, his mother, Miss Britney, wasn't home yet.