Alicia finishes the power point part of the assignment just before class starts. Each of us has to give a five minute segment. Luckily, we get a collective A. Personally, Reid and I nailed our parts. Taylor was a bit weak, and true to her word, Cassie sounded like she didn't even understand what she was talking about, but at least she tried.

Taylor nudges me after class.

"I wish I was a chick." Taylor's voice is clipped and tight.

"Not sure I want to hear this, but why do you want to be a chick?"

He cast a disparaging look at Cassie. "She didn't do a lick of work, just stood up there twirling her stupid hair and botching up all the words that were more than one syllable."

The immediate need to defend her swells up in my chest. "She helped."

Taylor studies me. "Really? What part did she do, Rory?"

For a moment I struggle. The truth is Taylor is right. She didn't do anything, but then she warned me she wasn't any good at research papers. I don't think he took into consideration that we may not have gotten an A had she helped.

"Well, I think she helped, about as much as you or I did."

Taylor squints and glances from me to Cassie. "Word of advice, French. You aren't her type."

"Okay, so what is her type?"

"I don't know. I just know you aren't her type. She likes bad boys, guys who break the rules. Not guys who eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drink whole milk."

He moves around me and leaves me standing. I think people base their opinions of me on the way I look. My Grandma Carolyn says I always look innocent and eternally surprised, because of my big eyes.

I gotta be honest, it pisses me off. I could be just as bad as the next guy. I really could.

I'm just like every other guy in school. I think about girls, what color bra they are wearing, about what goes on in the girls' locker room.

Cassie may not think I'm her type but I'm about to change her mind.

If Cassie is attracted to bad boys, then she's about to meet the new me. Say hello to Rory Bad Ass French.




I wait until after fifth period to start my new image. Mrs. Perkins is an old school teacher so she doesn't put up with anything she considers trifling. Some days she thinks coughing is trifling. And quite frankly, the woman scares me.

Now that I'm free of Mrs. Perkins, I start the French Evolution. (I am quite proud of that little pun.)

I pull at my bangs, trying to get them to hang down over one eye. I squint, doing my best to lose the innocent wide eyed look I usually have. I posture myself like the famous James Dean poster. He had such a care-less way of slouching. His slouch was so different than the one I used to do in the fifth grade when I thought I was too tall. Attitude is everything and I muster up as much attitude as I can.

Alicia Dumbrowski walks by and pauses, studying me.

"What's up?" I ask.

"You look different."

"That so?"

"What's wrong with your eyes?"

I cock my eyebrow, shift a little more in my casual lean and look off to the side. After giving her a moment to absorb the new me, I finally answer. "Ain't nothin' wrong with me."

I am in full James Dean mode now. And Alicia is drinking it all up. She has never spent so much time talking to me. It's working, holy shit, it's working.

"Maybe you should go to the bathroom. You look pretty constipated."

I wait until after she walks away to groan.