Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better by Lauren Barnholdt, Nathalie Dion Read Free Book Online Page A

His cell phone starts ringing from his pocket, playing the tune of a rap song that I programmed on for him. If I can’t have my own cell, then at least I should be able to have fun with someone else’s, right?
    “Aren’t you going to answer that?” I ask, singing along with the song. It’s very catchy. The song, I mean. And a very good temporary distraction from the factthat, you know, I’ve made up another fake boyfriend. Wow. That’s my second fake boyfriend in six months. That has to be some kind of record.
    “Uh, no,” my dad says, “Probably nothing important.”
    “It could be very important,” I say. “I know that if I had a cell phone, I would never, ever not answer it, since it could be you or mom calling me with some kind of family emergency.” He raises his eyebrows. “And,” I go on, “I could also use it to call you when I have to stay after school or something. Like today, when I had to use Lexi’s phone to call you. I’m probably running up her bill super high. In fact, I should probably give her some money for that call I made today.” This is pretty laughable, since Lexi’s family has tons of money, and my dad knows it. But just because she has the money doesn’t mean that I should take advantage of that, does it?
    My dad’s phone starts ringing again, and I reach over and grab it out of his shirt pocket before he can stop me.
    “Devon, no!” he says, but I look at the screen before he can stop me.
    “Calm down.” I roll my eyes. “It’s just Mom.” I flip open his phone and answer it. “Hello?” I say.
    “Hi, Devon,” my mom says. “Listen, can you guys stop at the store on the way home and pick up some milk?”
    “Sure,” I say. I can hear pots and pans clanging in the background, and then the phone gets muffled for a second and my mom says, “No, Katie, please don’t pour ketchup into the stew!” And then the line goes dead.
    “She wants us to pick up some milk,” I say. I slide the phone shut and hold it out to my dad.
    As I’m sliding it over, the phone starts ringing again. But my dad takes it out of my hand before I can see who it is, and shuts it off before putting it back in his pocket. Geez. Way to be the Phone Nazi.
    The next morning at school, I head to Mel’s locker first so that I can drop off our BFF notebook. The BFF notebook is something we started a while ago. We take turns writing notes back and forth in it, and then just pass the notebook to each other. It serves two purposes, in that we can pass it without teachers realizing that it’s not school related, and we can keep our notes all in one place, so that we can read them back to each other one day when we’re old and have grandchildren. Our plan is to talk about how much things havechanged and how silly junior high was. Well, at least I’ll hope that’s what we’ll do. It would be pretty upsetting if we read the notes and thought, “Oh, those were the days, when Devon made up fake boyfriends and Bailey Barelli was always around, like a little fly hovering, and oh, isn’t it funny how Bailey married Luke?”
    I slide the combination dial of Mel’s locker to the left. Five . . . fifteen, twenty-one. Mel and I have each other’s locker combinations just for situations like this. Wow, Mel really should clean this place once in a while. Her locker is pretty much a mess. Papers all over the place, which is really unlike her. Her bedroom is immaculate, you should see her bookshelves and her closet. Everything all facing the same way, color coded and alphabetized.
    I move some papers out of the way so that I can put the notebook in, and as I do, some stuff falls onto the floor. Oopsies. I bend down to pick the papers up, and realize I’ve accidentally left a footprint on one of them. Hope it’s not important. I look at the paper, “Application For . . .” is all I see before someone snaps it out of my hand.
    “What are you doing?” Mel asks, slamming her locker door shut in front of me.