Not So Bad After All (BWWM)(EDITING)

Chapter Three

Suddenly, a soft tapping sound broke through the melody. It was coming from my window.

I paused, the song fading into silence as I turned it down with the remote.

Rose. Her face appeared, half-hidden in the darkness, an expression of frustration etched on her features.

I opened my window, squinting into the darkness to find the source of the pebble that had just hit the glass. "Are you throwing stuff at my window?" I asked, spotting Rose in her pajama shorts and oversized hoodie standing on her room, head half out the window with her arms crossed.

"Yes!" she hissed. Her voice was low, but her frustration cut through the night. "Are you forgetting something?"

I frowned, racking my brain. "No. What do you want?"

Her eyes narrowed like she was seconds away from storming into my house herself. "We have an assignment to do! You were supposed to be here two hours ago!"

Shit. I had forgotten. Completely. Not that I was surprised—schoolwork wasn't exactly at the top of my priorities list. Rose, though, wasn't about to let me get away with this. She never did.

"If you wanna fail, that's fine!" she snapped. "But don't waste my time! Get your ass over here now!" With that, she slammed her window shut and disappeared inside, leaving me standing there, thoroughly annoyed.

I rolled my eyes and sighed, leaning on the windowsill. Rose was dramatic, bossy, and, honestly, the most exhausting person I knew. Well, second-most exhausting—my father still held that crown. And between the two of them, I couldn't decide who irritated me more. Probably her. At least my dad didn't throw rocks at my window.

Grumbling under my breath, I threw on a shirt and shoes. No way was she going to let this go. Not without a full-scale tantrum. I climbed out of my window, hopping onto the roof like I'd done a hundred times before. There was a big tree between our houses, and I used it to swing over to her roof, slipping into her window with practiced ease.

Her room was... well, it was exactly what I'd expected. Basic. Functional. And completely unremarkable. There was a white vanity with makeup and books scattered across it, a mounted TV above a simple dresser, a small desk with an outdated desktop computer humming softly, and a massive bookshelf stuffed with novels that screamed "try-hard." The one nice touch was the purple loveseat in the corner, which looked like it didn't belong in the same room as everything else.

I glanced at her bed, which was, at least, a full-sized one with a plush purple comforter. Not bad. Comfortable enough. I made myself at home, sprawling across it like I owned the place.

It was strange being back here. When we were kids, I used to come over all the time, but I couldn't remember ever stepping foot in her bedroom. Then again, nothing about Rose had ever been that memorable to me. At least, not until now, when she was actively making my life harder.

A few minutes later, she burst into the room, her face pale and her eyes wide. "What the hell are you doing on my bed?" she whisper-yelled, clutching her chest like I'd just scared her half to death.

I smirked, watching the panic on her face with mild amusement. "Relax. You told me to come over. So, here I am."

"Through my window?!"

"How else was I supposed to get in? The front door? Would your parents approve of me coming over this late at night?"

"Fair point," she muttered, though the tension in her shoulders didn't ease. She closed the door behind her and locked it. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were a burglar or something!"

"Stop being so dramatic," I said, shifting to make myself more comfortable. "Let's get this over with. It's late, and I'm tired."

"Now who's being dramatic?" she shot back, rolling her eyes. "You're such a baby."

I ignored her and glanced around the room again, my gaze landing on her bookshelf. It was massive and crammed with so many books that it looked like it might collapse under the weight. "Do you actually read all of those?"

"Yes, obviously," she said, crossing her arms defensively. "Unlike you, I actually care about school."

"Good for you," I muttered.

"Here." She shoved a paper into my hands. "Your half of the assignment."

"Who's Pablo Neruda, and why should I give a damn about him?" I asked, glancing at the name on the page like it personally offended me.

Rose's jaw dropped, and for a second, she looked like she wanted to smack me. "Are you serious? You don't know who Pablo Neruda is?"

"Should I?"

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "He's only one of the most famous poets in the world! Ever heard of the Nobel Prize in Literature? He won it in 1971. But, no, of course, you wouldn't know that. Why would you? You're too busy flexing your biceps to crack open a book."

I leaned back against her headboard, folding my arms behind my head. "I don't have to read books to know that literature is just a bunch of sappy crap."

Her expression was somewhere between offended and exasperated. "Then why are you in an advanced literature class if you clearly don't care about it?"

"It was this or L.A.R.Ping," I said with a shrug. "And I'd rather gouge my eyes out than run around pretending to be a wizard or whatever."

She snorted despite herself. "Okay, I'll give you that one. But if you hate poetry so much, you could've at least tried to fake it. You're just lucky I'm stuck doing this with you. Otherwise, you'd tank this project and your GPA along with it."

"GPA?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is this about me, or is it about you not wanting to ruin your precious 4.0?"

Her cheeks flushed, and I smirked. Got her.

"Whatever," she muttered, brushing past me to grab her notes. "We're doing this my way. You can thank me when you pass."

"Gee, thanks, Mom," I said sarcastically.

Ignoring me, she began pacing back and forth, reciting facts about Pablo Neruda like a walking encyclopedia. "His real name was Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto. Born in 1904 in Parral, Chile. He wrote in multiple genres—poetry, prose, even political manifestos. He's most famous for his love poems, though. His collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair is one of the best-selling poetry books of all time."

I blinked. "Wait, love poems? Oh, come on—"

"Shut up and listen," she snapped. "He was also a diplomat and an outspoken activist. He even ran for president of Chile at one point before withdrawing to support another candidate. He won the Nobel Prize in 1971 and was recognized for his contribution to literature and his ability to capture the human experience."

She kept going, rattling off every detail about his life with impressive speed. I had no idea she could even talk that fast. It was almost hypnotic—watching her pace back and forth, her hands moving as she spoke, her words spilling out with a passion I didn't think was possible for something as boring as poetry.

Somewhere in the middle of her rant, I realized she'd basically handed me everything I needed for the assignment. I didn't even have to think—just copy and paste her words onto paper, and I'd be golden.

When she finally stopped, she looked at me expectantly. "Well? What do you think?"

I grinned lazily. "I think I got paired with the ultimate nerd, and it's going to save my ass. Good job, Rose."

She glared at me, crossing her arms. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Maybe," I said, still grinning. "But at least I know I'll get an A on this."

Her glare deepened, which only made me shoot her a smirk. After all, I'm killing two birds with one stone here. Pissing Rose off and getting an A.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.