During middle school, our classrooms were on different floors. Sometimes, when I didn't have enough money for snacks from the school shop, I'd scamper upstairs to find Malcolm. "Malcolm, can I borrow ten bucks?"
Over time, whenever Malcolm's classmates saw me at their classroom door, they'd tease him, "Looks like your little girl is here again!"
"If you keep zoning out in class, I'm not going to help you with chores anymore," Malcolm said. After hearing that I'd been caught sneaking novels during class, he stormed downstairs the moment the bell rang, dragging me out of the classroom. Up until then, he had always covered for me during every class duty.
To ensure I could continue enjoying my novels and get help with my homework, I agreed on the spot to hand over all my romance books, hoping he'd keep up with his chores and tutoring.
Later, Malcolm's mom mentioned that Malcolm sometimes read romance novels in his room. She asked if he had a crush at school.
I didn't dare to tell her because those novels were actually all mine.
I thought, But why is Malcolm reading them? Isn't he supposed to be a bookish genius who only cares about studying?
