Free The Boy Book by E. Lockhart

naïve and unheart-broken back then.
    I felt, if I had to give Jackson a type, like he was a Flirtation. Although we didn’t speak, besides hello.
    Sometimes I hated him. He had betrayed me and dumped me, and he wasn’t the guy I’d thought he was back when we were going out. I felt like I was a better person than he was.
    At those times, I decided that the notes he had written me since we broke up (just the two) were some attempt to rid his conscience of guilt. Like if Jackson could get me to be nice to him, then he could feel that what he’d done to me last year was really okay.
    Other times, I felt like he and I had had this great relationship, and then someone (Kim) had interfered at a vulnerable moment when we had to decide whether to break up or say “love” or rip off all our clothes and do it.
    If she hadn’t interfered, Jackson and I would have stayed together and worked it out, and everything would have been wonderful.
    Wouldn’t it be good to have a happy ending now, after all that drama, with me and Jackson riding off into the sunset in his Dodge Dart Swinger?
    Yes, it would.
    The rest of the time, I thought, He has a girlfriend. He doesn’t like me. So don’t even think about it.
    But I did think about it.
    Jackson was there in my mind, all the time. Like a tumor.
     

     
    In a surprise move, Cabbie brought his photos to school on Thursday. Nearly two weeks after Kim’s party. I guess he hadn’t finished the roll that night. Or he was drunk and forgot about the camera in his jacket pocket. Or something.
    Anyway, he finally got them developed, and Darcy Andrews, this annoying guy I’ve never liked, had them when I got to Precal in the morning. He and a bunch of other boys were huddled over a desk, ogling.
    I went to see what they were looking at, poking my head over someone’s shoulder.
    There was Nora, sitting on the steps of the pool, her enormous hooters highlighted by a flashbulb. She looked hot, except for her face, which was a picture of mortification. Her hands were over her chest but completely failed to cover anything, really. One nipple was sticking out, and the rest of the boobage looked sexily squashed.
    The second picture was less flattering—she was running up the hill toward Kim’s house, and the top of her head was cut off, but you could see her hooters from a side angle, her soggy panties drooping at the butt, and some mud on her legs as she stumbled across the grass.
    There were other shots too, spread out on Darcy’s desk. Guys with their arms around each other, laughing. Cricket and her gone-to-college boyfriend, Billy Alexander, lying on the grass. Katarina and Ariel, holding up pieces of sushi and waving. Kim, her hair cut shorter than the last time I’d seen her, giggling as Jackson kissed her neck.
    Ag.
    I did not need to see that. I wanted to run out of the class and be sick in the bathroom. My hands started shaking and the room was suddenly hot and stuffy.
    But Nora was due in Precal any minute. And everyone could see her boobs.
    Now was not the time to have a panic thing.
    “Where did you get those?” I asked Darcy.
    “They’re from Yamamoto’s party,” he said. “Cabbie made double prints.”
    “He knew we’d all be grateful,” laughed one of the guys.
    “Van Deusen has a lot on deck,” another said. “She should get out more.”
    “Ooh,” I said, all innocent. “Can I see? Let me look!”
    “I don’t know,” said Darcy.
    “Please,” I coaxed, scooting in next to him and leaning over flirtatiously. “Just for a sec. I love pictures.”
    He pulled them into a stack and handed them over. As soon as I got them, I yanked the Nora pictures from the bottom of the pile, dropped the others on the floor and ripped the ones of Nora into tiny pieces.
    “Oliver!” barked Darcy. “What’d you go and do that for?”
    “You have to ask?”
    “Don’t go all feminist on me,” he muttered. “Geez.”
    “I wouldn’t need to be feminist if you weren’t