Perfectly Misunderstood (The Perfect Series Book 4)

By: Robin Daniels

For Callie – Devoted fan, dedicated friend and dopest sister-in-law ever. (Winky-Kissy Emoji)
I’m failing Spanish. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I have a B minus, though, so I might as well be failing. I’m one bad exam away from a C plus, and that’s completely unacceptable. I cannot have a C on my record. I shouldn’t even have a B.
“I have your tests from yesterday graded,” Mr. Thompson said as he stood up from his desk, papers in hand.
“Perfect,” I muttered under my breath, bracing myself for the worst.
Mr. Thompson started walking up and down the rows, delivering good and bad news. I watched my classmates’ faces, trying to guess their scores as they reacted to seeing their tests. Noah sighed in relief. He’s a complete slacker, so I’m going to guess he pulled a D. My friend Becca squealed and clapped—B plus. My cousin Angelica’s smug smile told me what I already knew: She got an A. And why wouldn’t she? She’s fluent in Spanish, so it’s hardly fair. They should’ve made her take German. Mike glanced at his test, then quickly shoved it in his backpack. He has zero brain cells—F for sure.
My teacher approached my desk and gave me a sad smile. It must have been worse than I thought. He placed the test facedown in front of me and moved to the next poor soul. I stared at the back of the paper, willing its score to be high enough. Please be at least 80 percent, I chanted over and over in my head. Finally, I took a deep breath and flipped the test over—a C. Tons of kids would be thrilled with a C; it’s supposed to be the average. But I’m not average.
I whipped out my calculator and started adding up my totals for the quarter. The test was a 77 percent, which wasn’t quite high enough to keep my B minus. Correction: I now have a C plus in Spanish, and in my book that is failing.
My dad was going to flip out if I didn’t get my grade up before the end of the semester. It was totally hypocritic of him since he could have helped me with my Spanish homework. He knew Spanish, he just refused to speak it—like ever. Still, he expected me to be acing a language I’d never learned. It was unfair, but a waste of time to say so to my father. I had an A in calculus and physics. Why couldn’t I manage a lousy A in Spanish?
“How’d you do?” my cousin Angelica taunted with fake sweetness from the next row. She knew I was struggling and liked to rub it in.
“Awesome,” I answered with a hint of sarcasm, as I plastered on a smile and slid the test in my folder before anyone could see it.
My teacher made his way to the front of the room and clapped his hands loudly. “Atención, por favor—attention please.” The class quieted. “Saquen sus cuadernos.” Take out your notebooks, he said. Cuadernos means notebook; I knew that much, at least. I pulled out my Spanish journal and spent the rest of the class feverishly taking notes. I loved everything about Mr. Thompson. He only had two minor flaws, as far as I could tell. The first was that he was quiz happy, and the second was that he insisted on speaking mostly in Spanish. Today, I understood about half of what he was saying, which is better than I was doing a couple weeks ago.
The bell rang, and Becca jumped from her chair. “How’d you do?” she asked excitedly.
“Seventy-seven,” I replied with a frown.
Becca stuck out her bottom lip, then tried to smile. “Well, it could have been worse, right?”
“I guess.” I sighed and started cramming my stuff into my backpack.
“You want a ride home today? Or are you driving with Summer and Levi?”
“Yes, please!” I answered a little too eagerly. Becca smirked, and I rolled my eyes at her. “Not that the minivan isn’t cool, but riding with them makes me feel like a loser. They’re so perfect together, it’s gross. Plus, the copious levels of testosterone are enough to suffocate a girl. The guys are bad enough one or two at a time. Trap them all in a car for fifteen minutes, and it becomes a pissing contest. Who’s better at this, who’s better at that, who can kick whose butt.”